`` Bury it , '' said the Story Girl . We did bury it after tea , in the depths of the spruce grove ; and then we went into the orchard . It was so nice to have the Story Girl back again . She had wreathed her hair with Canterbury Bells , and looked like the incarnation of rhyme and story and dream . `` Canterbury Bells is a lovely name for a flower , is n't it ? '' she said . `` It makes you think of cathedrals and chimes , does n't it ? Let 's go over to Uncle Stephen 's Walk , and sit on the branches of the big tree . It 's too wet on the grass , and I know a story -- a TRUE story , about an old lady I saw in town at Aunt Louisa 's . Such a dear old lady , with lovely silvery curls . '' After the rain the air seemed dripping with odours in the warm west wind -- the tang of fir balsam , the spice of mint , the wild woodsiness of ferns , the aroma of grasses steeping in the sunshine , -- and with it all a breath of wild sweetness from far hill pastures . Scattered through the grass in Uncle Stephen 's Walk , were blossoming pale , aerial flowers which had no name that we could ever discover . Nobody seemed to know anything about them . They had been there when Great-grandfather King bought the place . I have never seen them elsewhere , or found them described in any floral catalogue . We called them the White Ladies . The Story Girl gave them the name . She said they looked like the souls of good women who had had to suffer much and had been very patient . They were wonderfully dainty , with a strange , faint , aromatic perfume which was only to be detected at a little distance and vanished if you bent over them . They faded soon after they were plucked ; and , although strangers , greatly admiring them , often carried away roots and seeds , they could never be coaxed to grow elsewhere .
`` My story is about Mrs. Dunbar and the Captain XXXXX the FANNY , '' said the Story Girl , settling herself comfortably on a bough , with her brown head against a gnarled trunk .
After about at for in into like of on with