But I had better cease. Were I sure that the Reader was seeing what I am
seeing, hearing as I, I should not fear; but how can I be sure of that?
Had I the pen which that same George will persist in keeping for his
letters, I should venture to delight the Reader with more of his story.
One underhand hope of mine, however, for these poor hints is, that they
may by their very imperfection arouse him to give the world 'the true
story' of a happy home. Narcissus repeatedly threatened that, if he did
not take pen in hand, he would some day 'make copy' of him; and now I
have done it instead. Moreover, I shall further presume on his
forbearance by concluding with a quotation from one of his letters that
came to me but a few months back:--
'You know how deeply exercised the little ones are on the subject of
death, and how I had answered their curiosity by the story that after
death all things turn into flowers. Well, what should startle the wife's
ears the other day but "Mother, I wish you would die." "O why, my dear?"
"Because I should so like to water you!" was the delicious explanation.
The theory has, moreover, been called to stand at the bar of experience,
for a week or two ago one of Phyllis' goldfish died. There were tears at
first, of course, but they suddenly dried up as Geoffrey, in his
reflective way, wondered "what flower it would come to." Here was a
dilemma. One had never thought of such contingencies. But, of course, it
was soon solved.
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