The Palace in the Garden

ILLUSTRATED BY HARRIET M. BENNETT
think the best beginning is the morning that grandpapa sent for us to come down to the study. Tib and Gerald, don't think so. They say I should begin by telling our names, and how old we were, and all that—at least, Gerald says so; Tib isn't quite sure. Tib very often isn't quite sure. She has got too grand ideas, and if she were going to write a story, she would make it like poetry, very difficult to understand, and awfully long words, and lots about feelings and sorrows and mysteries. I like mysteries, too—I think they are very interesting, and I have one to tell about, as you will see, only I must tell it my own way, and after all, as this story is only to be read by Tib and Gerald—and our children—we have settled that when we are all three grown-up and married, and have children, it shall be made into a book for them—I daresay it doesn't much matter how it is told.
Well, that morning we were all poking our heads as far as we dared out of the school-room window—Miss Evans hadn't yet come—to see the first primrose man that had passed that year. We heard his All a blowing, all a growing, far off down the street, but we hadn't yet seen him and his basket with the beautiful light yellow bunches at the top, and we were wondering if we could get Fanny to run out and buy us twopence-worth, when Bland stuck his solemn and rather crabbed-looking face in at the door. Bland is grandpapa's own man, as they say, and his name doesn't suit him at all—at least, it didn't then—he's not so bad now we're older.
Young ladies and Master Gerald, he said, my master wishes you all to come down stairs to speak to him before he goes out.
Down we all tumbled from the window-sill. Tib and I began smoothing our aprons and tugging at each other's hair—grandpapa was very particular. Gerald only looked at his hands.
They are rather dirty, he said seriously. But I did wash them so very well this morning, and it's not ten o'clock yet. Do you think, Gussie——?