I remembered it quite well. That afternoon the others could not amuse themselves, and wanted me to tell them a story. They do not like old stories too often, and it is rather difficult to invent new ones. Sometimes we do it by turns. We sit in a circle and one of us begins, and the next must add something, and so we go on. But that way does not make a good plot. My head was so full of the Book of Paradise that afternoon that I could not think of a story, but I said I would begin one. So I began: "Once upon a time there was a Queen--" "How was she dressed?" asked Adela, who thinks a good deal about dress. "She had a beautiful dark-blue satin robe." "_Princesse_ shape?" inquired Adela. "No; Queen's shape," said Arthur. "Drive on, Mary." "And lace ruffles falling back from her Highness's hands--" "Sweet!" murmured Adela. "And a high hat, with plumes, on her head, and--" "A very low dwarf at her heels," added Arthur. "Was there really a dwarf, Mary?" asked Harry. "There was," said I. "Had he a hump, or was he only a plain dwarf?" "He was a very plain dwarf," said Arthur. "Does Arthur know the story, Mary?" "No, Harry, he doesn't; and he oughtn't to interfere till I come to a stop." "Beg pardon, Mary. Drive on." "The Queen was very much delighted with all fair flowers, and she had a garden so full of them that it was called the Earthly Paradise." There was a long-drawn and general "Oh!" of admiration. "But though she was a Queen, she couldn't have flowers in the winter, not even in an Earthly Paradise." "Don't you suppose she had a greenhouse, by the bye, Mary?" said Arthur. "Oh, Arthur," cried Harry, "I do wish you'd be quiet: when you know it's a fairy story, and that Queens of that sort never had greenhouses or anything like we have now." "And so the King's Apothecary and Herbarist, whose name was John Parkinson--" "I shouldn't have thought he would have had a common name like that," said Harry. "Bessy's name is Parkinson," said Adela. "Well, I can't help it; his name _was_ John Parkinson." "Drive on, Mary!" said Arthur. "And he made her a book, called the Book of Paradise, in which there were pictures and written accounts of her flowers, so that when she could not see any of them fresh upon the ground, she could read about them, and think about them, and count up how many she had." "Ah, but she couldn't tell. Some of them might have died in the winter," said Adela. "Ah, but some of the others might have got little ones at their roots," said Harry. "So that would make up." I said nothing. I was glad of the diversion, for I could not think how to go on with the story. Before I quite gave in, Harry luckily asked, "Was there a Weeding Woman in the Earthly Paradise?" "There was," said I. "How was she dressed?" asked Adela. "She had a dress the colour of common earth." "_Princesse_ shape?" inquired Arthur. "No; Weeding Woman shape. Arthur, I wish you wouldn't--" "All right, Mary. Drive on."