"Rest a minute, dear, and try to keep them from falling," said the
Teacup, who was also breathless, but very kind. "Of course, if they
should fall here it wouldn't be so bad; still, if you can keep them on
your lashes till we reach the Vale--"

"What would they do," asked Sara, in awe, "if they fell in the
Garden?"

The Teacup and the Gunki looked at each other with wide, horrified
eyes, each waiting for the other to speak.

"Well, you see, none ever have fallen in the Garden," said the Teacup,
at last, speaking in a voice that was hardly more than a whisper.
"Before my Saucer was broken--"

"She's a widow, Miss," explained the Gunki, whispering to Sara behind
their hands. One whispered in baritone, one in bass.

"Before my Saucer was broken," continued the Teacup, with a grateful
look at the thoughtful Gunki, "I've heard him say that a little girl
came into the Garden one day with tears in her eyes, and that one
would have fallen, if a Gunkus had not caught it in his shoe. Haven't
you noticed the old, gray-haired Gunkus, who always wears a wooden
medal on his coat-tail--"

"Our grandfather," whispered the Gunki, behind their hands. This time
they whispered in second bass and tenor.

"Yes, the grandfather of these dear boys," said the susceptible old
lady. "He was showing the little girl about the Garden, and so had his