"Yes, a cellar."
"I never met a flower from a cellar before," said the rose.
"Nor I," said the daisy.
"Nor I," said the lily. "There are no cellars in lakes."
"I thought they were all cellar," said the daisy, slyly; but the lily made no reply.
"Would you mind telling us how you came there?" asked the rose. "Being full-blown, I couldn't sleep much, if I tried."
"I am perfectly willing to tell you, if the others care to listen," said the pink flower, modestly.
"Pray go on," begged the daisy.
And "I have no objection," added the water-lily, in a gracious manner.
"One day," began the geranium blossom, growing a little pinker as its companions all turned toward it, "a servant-maid tossed from a window a withered bouquet into the street, and in the centre of this bouquet was a slip of geranium which had been placed there because its crumpled young leaves were so fresh and green. A poor little girl passing by picked up this slip, and carried it to a wretched cellar, where she lived in the greatest untidiness with her mother—a poor, weak, complaining woman—and her two small sisters and eight-year-old brother. Here she found a battered tin pail, which she filled with dirt from the street, and in this dirt she planted the slip of geranium. 'See, mommy,' she said, holding it up, as her mother raised her eyes from the coarse garment she was making, 'I mean to take awful good care of this, and some day it may grow a flower, a beautiful flower, like those I see in the windows of the big houses. Wouldn't that be lovely, mommy?' And she climbed up on the shaky old wooden table, and placed the pail on the ledge of the four-paned cellar window.