The Amaranth, however, who never slept a wink through the whole night, would not answer the question, though the flowers were certain that she could, were she so inclined.

“I do not see how you who are in her immediate neighbourhood, can breathe!” said the Syringa, who was farthest removed from the poor Poppy.

“I do feel as if I should faint!” said the Verbena.

“And I feel a cold chill creeping over me!” said the Ice Plant.

“That is not strange!” remarked the Nightshade, who had sprung up in the shadow of the hedge, “she carries with her, everywhere she goes, the atmosphere of the place whence she comes.  Do you know where that is?”

Some of the flowers shuddered, but the Nightshade went on:—­

“The Poppy is indigenous now only on the verdureless banks of the Styx.  When Proserpine, who was gathering flowers, was carried away to the dark Avernus, all the other blossoms which she had woven in her garland withered and died, but the Poppy; and that the goddess planted in the land of darkness and gloom, and called it the flower of Death.  She flourishes there in great luxuriance; Nox and Somnus make her bed their couch.  The aching head, which is bound with a garland of her blossoms, ceases to throb; the agonized soul which drinks in her deep breath, wakes no more to sorrow.  Death follows wherever she comes!”

“We will not talk of such gloomy things!” said the Coreopsis, with difficulty preserving her cheerfulness.

But the other plants were silent and dejected; all but the Amaranth, who knew herself gifted with immortality, and the Box, who was very stoical.  But another trial awaited the poor Poppy.

The Nightshade had hardly ceased speaking, when soft, gentle human voices were heard in the garden, and a child of three summers, with rosy cheeks, deep blue eyes, and flowing, golden hair, came bounding down the gravelled walks, followed by a fair lady.  The child had come to bid good morning to her flowers and birds, and as she carolled to the latter, and paused now and then to inhale the breath of some fragrant blossom, and examine the elegant form and rich and varied tints of another, the little songsters sang more loudly and cheerily; and the flowers, it seemed, became more sweet and beautiful.

The Poppy, who was as ignorant as was any one else how she had found her way into the garden, now began to reason with herself.

“Some one must have planted me here,” she said; “and though I am not as sweet as that proud Carnation, nor so elegant as that dignified Dahlia, I may have as much right to remain here as they!” and she raised her head erect, and spread out her broad, scarlet petals, with their deep, ragged fringe, hoping to attract the notice of the little girl.

And so indeed she did; for as the child paused before pale sweet-scented Verbena, the flaunting Poppy caught her eye, and she extended her hand toward the strange blossom.