another, and Iris, who was the story-teller of the party, was never
tired of telling the stories of the great originals after whom she and
her brothers and sister were named.

Down the straight path which led to the pretty arbor were Scotch
roses, red and white. The smell of these roses in the summer was quite
enough to ravish you. Iris in particular used to sniff at them and
sniff at them until she felt nearly intoxicated with delight.

The central garden, which was mostly devoted to flowers, led through
little, old-fashioned, somewhat narrow postern doors into the fruit
gardens on either side. In these were the gooseberries. Here were to
be found the great beds of strawberries; here, by-and-by, ripened the
plums and the many sorts of apples and pears; here, too, were the
great glass houses where the grapes assumed their deep claret color
and their wonderful bloom; and here also were some peculiar and
marvelous foreign flowers, such as orchids, and many others.

Whenever the children were not in the house they were to be found in
the garden, for, in addition to the abundance of fruit and vegetables,
it also possessed some stately trees, which gave plenty of shade even
when the sun was at its hottest. Here Iris would lie full length on
her face and hands, and dream dreams to any extent. Now and then also
she would wake up with a start and tell marvelous stories to her
brothers and sister. She told stories very well, and the others always
listened solemnly and begged her to tell more, and questioned and
argued, and tried to make the adventures she described come really
into their own lives.

Iris was undoubtedly the most imaginative of all the little party.