Mother was very much surprised by Arthur's letter, but not so much
puzzled as he expected. She knew Parkinson's _Paradisus_ quite well,
and only wrote to me to ask; "What are the boys after with the old
books? Does your Father know?"
But when I told her that he had given us leave to be in the library,
and that we took great care of the books, and how much we enjoyed the
ones about gardening, and all that we were going to do, she was very
kind indeed, and promised to put on a blue dress and lace ruffles and
be Queen of our Earthly Paradise as soon as she came home.
When she did come home she was much better, and so was Chris. He was
delighted to be our Dwarf, but he wanted to have a hump, and he would
have such a big one that it would not keep in its place, and kept
slipping under his arm and into all sorts of queer positions.
Not one of us enjoyed our new game more than Chris did, and he was
always teasing me to tell him the story I had told the others, and to
read out the names of the flowers which "the real Queen" had in her
"real paradise." He made Mother promise to try to get him a bulb of
the real Dwarf Daffodil as his next birthday present, to put in his
own garden.
"And I'll give you some compost," said Arthur. "It'll be ever so much
better than a stupid book with 'stuff' in it."
Chris did seem much stronger. He had color in his cheeks, and his head
did not look so large. But he seemed to puzzle over things in it as
much as ever, and he was just as odd and quaint.
One warm day I had taken the "Tour round my Garden," and was sitting
near the bush in the little wood behind our house, when Chris came
after me with a Japanese fan in his hand, and sat down cross-legged at
my feet. As I was reading, and Mother has taught us not to interrupt
people when they are reading, he said nothing, but there he sat.
"What is it Chris?" said I.
"I am discontented," said Chris.
"I'm very sorry," said I.
"I don't think I'm selfish, particularly, but I'm discontented."
"What about?"
"Oh, Mary, I do wish I had not been away when you invented Paradise,
then I should have had a name in the game."
"You've got a name, Chris. You're the Dwarf."
"Ah, but what was the Dwarf's name?"
"I don't know," I admitted.
"No; that's just it. I've only one name, and Arthur and Harry have
two. Arthur is a Pothecary" (Chris could never be induced to accept
Apothecary as one word), "and he's John Parkinson as well. Harry is
Honest Root-gatherer, and he is Francis le Vean. If I'd not been away
I should have had two names."
"You can easily have two names," said I. "We'll call the Dwarf Thomas
Brown."
Chris shook his big head.
"No, no. That wasn't his name; I know it wasn't. It's only stuff. I
want another name out of the old book."
I dared not tell him that the dwarf was not in the old book. I said:
"My dear Chris, you really are discontented; we can't all have double
names. Adela has only one name, she is Weeding Woman and nothing else;
and I have only one name, I'm Traveller's Joy, and that's all."
"But you and Adela are girls," said Chris complacently. "The boys have
two names."
I suppressed some resentment, for Christopher's eyes were beginning to
look weary, and said:
"Shall I read to you for a bit?"
"No, don't read. Tell me things out of the old book. Tell me about the
Queen's flowers. Don't tell me about daffodils, they make me think
what a long way off my birthday is, and I'm quite discontented
enough."
And Chris sighed, and lay down on the grass, with one arm under his
head, and his fan in his hand; and, as well as I could remember, I
told him all about the different varieties of Cowslips, down to the
Franticke, or Foolish Cowslip, and he became quite happy.
Dear Father is rather short sighted, but he can hold a round glass in
his eye without cutting himself. It was the other eye which was next
to Chris at prayers the following morning; but he saw his legs, and
the servants had hardly got out of the hall before he shouted "Pull up
your stockings, Chris!"--and then to Mother, "Why do you keep that
sloven of a girl Bessy, if she can't dress the children decently? But
I can't conceive what made you put that child into knickerbockers, he
can't keep his stockings up."
"Yes I can," said Christopher, calmly, looking at his legs.
"Then what have you got 'em down for?" shouted Father.
"They're not all down," said Chris, his head still bent over his
knees, till I began to fear he would have a fit.
"One of 'em is, anyhow. I saw it at prayers. Pull it up."
"Two of them are," said Christopher, never lifting his admiring gaze
from his stockings. "Two of them are down, and two of them are up,
quite up, quite tidy."
Dear Father rubbed his glass and put it back into his eye.
"Why, how many stockings have you got on?"
"Four," said Chris, smiling serenely at his legs; "and it isn't
Bessy's fault. I put 'em all on myself, everyone of them."
At this minute James brought in the papers, and Father only laughed,
and said, "I never saw such a chap," and began to read. He is very
fond of Christopher, and Chris is never afraid of him.
I was going out of the room, and Chris followed me into the hall, and
drew my attention to his legs, which were clothed in four stockings;
one pair, as he said, being drawn tidily up over his knees, the other
pair turned down with some neatness in folds a little above his
ankles.
"Mary," he said, "I'm contented now."
"I'm very glad, Chris. But do leave off staring at your legs. All the
blood will run into your head."
"I wish things wouldn't always get into _my_ head, and nobody else's,"
said Chris, peevishly, as he raised it; but when he looked back at his
stockings, they seemed to comfort him again.
"Mary, I've found another name for myself."
"Dear Chris! I'm so glad."
"It's a real one, out of the old book. I thought of it entirely by
myself."
"Good Dwarf. What is your name?"
"_Hose-in-Hose,_" said Christopher, still smiling down upon his legs.