I saw, many times, that no-wonder-they-died look in her face.

Children are great rememberers. They are the recording angels--the
keepers of the book of life. Man forgets--how easily!--and easiest of
all, the solemn truth that children do _not_ forget.

A few days after I arrived in the home of my aunt and uncle I slyly
entered the parlor and climbed the what-not to examine some white
flowers on its top shelf and tipped the whole thing over, scattering its
burden of albums, wax flowers and sea shells on the floor. My aunt came
running on her tiptoes and exclaimed: "Mercy! Come right out o' here
this minute--you pest!"

I took some rather long steps going out which were due to the fact that
Aunt Deel had hold of my hand. While I sat weeping she went back into
the parlor and began to pick up things.

"My wreath! my wreath!" I heard her moaning.

How well I remember that little assemblage of flower ghosts in wax! They
had no more right to associate with human beings than the ghosts of
fable. Uncle Peabody used to call them the "Minervy flowers" because
they were a present from his Aunt Minerva. When Aunt Deel returned to
the kitchen where I sat--a sorrowing little refugee hunched up in a
corner--she said: "I'll have to tell your Uncle Peabody--ayes!"

"Oh please don't tell my Uncle Peabody," I wailed.

"Ayes! I'll have to tell him," she answered firmly.