LITTLE MOTHER TO THE OTHERS ^r^^^TY MRS.LTMEADE THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES Little Mother to the Others BY Mrs. L. T. MEADE AUTHOR OF "The School Favorite," "A Bunch of Cherries," "Frances Kane's Fortune," "Time of Roses," Etc. M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY CHICAGO PS CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I. The Poor Innocent 5 II. A Little Mother to the Others 20 III. The Arrival of the Aunt 33 IV. Rnb-a-Dub 43 V. Aunt is Her Name 54 VI. The Poor Dead 'Uns 66 VII. But Ann Could not Help Letting Out Now and Then. 81 VIII. The Straw Too Much 95 IX. The Punishment Chamber 104 X. Bow and Arrow 122 XL Jog'aphy 135 XII. A Baby's Honor 141 XIIL Birch Eod 152 XIV. Diana 's Revenge 162 XV. Mother Eodesia 173 XVI. Unele Ben 184 XVII. Greased Lightning 194 XVIII. The Heart of the Little Mother 208 XIX. "A Pigmy, I Call Him " 222 XX. "Let's Pertend," Said Diana 229 yXT. Pole Star 238 XXIL The Milkman 251 XXIII. Fortune 262 XXIV. On the Trail 269 XXV. Pound 277 XXVI. The Little Mother to the Rescue... ...288 2137109 * A LITTLE MOTHER TO THE OTHERS CHAPTER I. THE POOR INNOCENT. The four children had rather peculiar names. The eld- est girl was called Iris, which, as everybody ought to know, means rainbow indeed, there was an Iris spoken of in the old Greek legends, who was supposed to be Hera's chief messenger, and whenever a rainbow appeared in the sky it was said that Iris was bringing down a message from Hera. The Iris of this story was a very pretty, thoughtful little girl, aged ten years. Her mother often talked to her about her name, and told her the story which was associated with it. The eldest boy was called Apollo, which also is a Greek name, and was supposed at one time to belong to the most beautiful boy in the world. The next girl was called Diana, and the youngest boy's name was Orion. When this story opens, Iris was ten years old, Apollo nine, Diana six, and little Orion five. They were like ordinary children in appearance, being neither particularly 5 6 A Little Mother to the Others. handsome nor particularly the reverse ; but in their minds and ways, in their habits and tastes they seemed to have inherited a savor of those far-off beings after whom their mother had called them. They were, in short, very un- worldly children that does not mean that they were spe- cially religious but they did not care for fine clothes, nor the ordinary amusements which ordinary children delight in. They loved flowers with a love which was almost a passion, and they also knew a great deal about the stars, and often coaxed their mother to allow them to sit up late at night to watch the different constellations; but above all these things they adored, with a great adoration, the entire animal kingdom. It so happened that the little Delaneys spent the greater part of their time in a beautiful garden. I don't think, in all the course of my wanderings, I ever saw a garden quite to compare to that in which their early days were spent. Even in the winter they lived the greater part of their time here, being hardy children and never catch- ing cold. The house was a fine and beautiful building, having belonged to their family for several generations, but the children thought nothing at all of that in compari- son with the garden. Here, when possible, they even had their lessons; here they played all their wonderful and remarkable games; here they went through their brief sorrows, and tasted their sweetest joys. But I must hasten to describe the garden itself. In the first place, it was old-fashioned, having very high brick walls covered all over with fruit trees. These fruit trees had grown slowly, and were now in the perfection of their prime. Never The Poor Innocent. 7 were such peaches to be seen, nor such apricots, nor such cherries, as ripened slowly on the red brick walls of the old garden. Inside the walls almost all well-known Eng- lish flowers flourished in lavish profusion. There was also fruit to be found here in quantities. Never were such strawberries to be seen as could be gathered from those great strawberry beds. Then the gooseberries with which the old bushes were laden; the currants, red, black, and white; the raspberries, had surely their match nowhere else on this earth. The walled-in garden contained quite five acres of ground, and was divided itself into three portions. In the middle was the flower garden proper. Here there was a long, straight walk which led to an arbor at the bottom. The children were particularly fond of this arbor, for their father had made it for them with his own hands, and their mother had watched its growth. Mrs. Delaney was very delicate at the time, and as she looked on and saw the pretty arbor growing into shape, she used to lean on Iris' arm and talk to her now and then in her soft, low voice about the flowers and the animals, and the happy life which the little people were leading. At these mo- ments a look would often conie into her mother's gentle eyes which caused Iris' heart to beat fast, and made her tighten her clasp on the slender arm. Then, when the arbor was quite finished, Mr. Delaney put little seats into it, a rustic chair for each child, which he or she could take in or out at pleasure. The chairs were carved in com- memoration of each child's name. Iris had the deep pur- ple flowers which go by that name twined round and round 8 A Little Mother to the Others. the back of hers. Apollo's chair was made memorable with his well-known lyre and bow, and these words were carved round it: "The golden lyre shall be my friend, the bent bow my delight, and in oracles will I foretell the dark future." Diana's chair had a bow and quiver engraved on the back, while little Orion's represented a giant with a girdle and a sword. The children were very proud of their chairs, and often talked of them to one another, and Iris, who was the story-teller of the party, was never tired of telling the stories of the great originals after whom she and her brothers and sister were named. Down the straight path which led to the pretty arbor were Scotch roses, red and white. The smell of these roses in the summer was quite enough to ravish you. Iris in particular used to sniff at them and sniff at them until she felt nearly intoxicated with delight. The central garden, which was mostly devoted to flowers, led through little, old-fashioned, somewhat nar- row postern doors into the fruit gardens on either side. In these were the gooseberries. Here were to be found the great beds of strawberries; here, by-and-by, ripened the plums and the many sort? of apples and pears; here, too, were the great glass houses where the grapes assumed their deep claret color and their wonderful bloom; and here also were some peculiar and marvelous foreign flowers, such as orchids, and many others. Whenever the children were not in the house they were to be found in the garden, for, in addition to the abun- dance of fruit and vegetables, it also possessed some stately The Poor Innocent. 9 trees, which gave plenty of shade even when the sun was at its hottest. Here Iris would lie full length on her face and hands, and dream dreams to any extent. Novr and then also she would wake up with a start and tell mar- velous stories to her brothers and sister. She told stories very well, and the others always listened solemnly and begged her to tell more, and questioned and argued, and tried to make the adventures she described come really into their own lives. Iris was undoubtedly the most imaginative of all the little party. She was also the most gentle and the most thoughtful. She took most after her beautiful mother, and thought more than any of the others of the peculiar names after which they were all called. On a certain day in the first week of a particularly hot and lovely June, Iris, who had been in the house for some time, came slowly out, swinging her large muslin hat on her arm. Her face looked paler than usual, and some- what thoughtful. "Here you are at last, Iris," called out Diana, in her brisk voice, "and not a moment too soon. I have just found a poor innocent dead on the walk; you must come and look at it at once." On hearing these words, the gloom left Iris' face as if by magic. "Where is it?" she asked. "I hope you did not tread on it, Diana." "No; but Puff-Bail did," answered Diana. "Don't blame him, please, Iris; he is only a puppy and always up to mischief. He took the poor innocent in his mouth 10 A Little Mother to the Others. and shook it; but I think it was quite deaded before that." "Then, if it is dead, it must be buried/' said Iris sol- emnly. "Bring it into the arbor, and let us think what kind of funeral we will give it." "Why not into the dead-house at once?" queried Diana. "No; the arbor will do for the present." Iris quickened her footsteps and walked down the straight path through the midst of the Scotch roses. Hav- ing reached the pretty little summer-house, she seated her- self on her rustic chair and waited until Diana arrived with the poor innocent. This was a somewhat unsightly object, being nothing more nor less than a dead earthworm which had been found on the walk, and which Diana respected, as she did all live creatures, great or small. "Put it down there," said Iris ; "we can have a funeral when the sun is not quite so hot." "I suppose it will have a private funeral," said Apollo, who came into the summer-house at that moment. "It is nothing but a poor innocent, and not worth a great deal of trouble; and I do hope, Iris," he added eagerly, "that you will not expect me to be present, for I have got some most important chemical experiments which I am anxious to go on with. I quite hope to succeed with my thermom- eter today, and, after all, as it is only a worm " Iris looked up at him with very solemn eyes. "Only a worm," she repeated. "Is that its fault, poor thing?" Apollo seemed to feel the indignant glance of Iris* brown eyes. He sat down submissively on his own chair. Orion and Diana dropped on their knees by Iris' The Poor Innocent. 11 side. "I think," said Iris slowly, "that we will give this poor innocent a simple funeral. The coffin must be made of dock leaves, and " Here she was suddenly interrupted a shadow fell across the entrance door of the pretty summer-house. An elderly woman, with a thin face and lank figure, looked in. "Miss Iris," she said, "Mrs. Delaney is awake and would be glad to see you." "Mother!" cried Iris eagerly. She turned at once to her sister and brothers. "The innocent must wait," she said. "Put it in the dead-house with the other creatures. I will attend to the funeral in the evening or to-morrow. Don't keep me now, children." "But I thought you had just come from mother," said Apollo. "No. When I went to her she was asleep. Don't keep me, please." The woman who had brought the message had already disappeared down the long straight walk. Iris took to her heels and ran after her. "Fortune," she said, looking into her face, "is mother any better?" "As to that, Miss Iris, it is more than I can tell you. Please don't hold on to my hand, miss. In hot weather I hate children to cling to me." Iris said nothing more, but she withdrew a little from Fortune's side. Fortune hurried her steps, and Iris kept time with her. When they reached the house, the woman stopped and looked intently at the child. "You can go straight upstairs at once, miss, and into 12 A Little Mother to the Others. the room," she said. "You need not knock; my mistress is waiting for you." "Don't 3 7 ou think, Fortune, that mother is just a little wee bit better ?" asked Iris again. There was an imploring note in her question this time. "She will tell you herself, my dear. Now, be quick; don't keep her waiting. It is bad for people, when they are ill, to be kept waiting." "I won't keep her; I'll go to her this very instant," said Iris, The old house was as beautiful as the garden to which it belonged. It had been built, a great part of it, centuries ago, and had, like many other houses of its date, been added to from time to time. Queerly shaped rooms jutted out in many quarters; odd stairs climbed up in several directions; towers and turrets were added to the roof; passages, some narrow, some broad, connected the new buildings with the old. The whole made an incongruous and yet beautiful effect, the new rooms possessing the ad- vantages and comforts which modern builders put into their houses, and the older part of the house the quaint devices and thick, wainscoted walls and deep, mullioned windows of the times which are gone by. Iris ran quickly through the wide entrance hall and up the broad, white, stone stairs. These stairs were a special feature of Delaney Manor. They had been brought all the way from Italy by a Delaney nearly a hundred years ago, and were made of pure marble, and were very lovely to look at. When Iris reached the first landing, she turned aside from the spacious modern apartments and, opening The Poor Innocent. 13 a green baize door, ran down a narrow passage. At the end of the passage she turned to the left and went down another passage, and then wended her way up some nar- row stairs, which curled round and round as if they were going up a tower. This, as a matter of fact, was the case. Presently Iris pushed aside a curtain, and found herself in an octagon room nearly at the top of a somewhat high, but squarely built, tower. This room, which was large and airy, was wainscoted with oak ; there was a thick Tur- key carpet on the floor, and the many windows were flung wide open, so that the summer breeze, coming in fresh and sweet from this great height, made the whole loTely room as fresh and cheery and full of sweet perfume as if its solitary inmate were really in the open air. Iris, however, had often been in the room before, and had no time or thought now to give to its appearance. Her eyes darted to the sofa on which her young mother lay. Mrs. Delaney was half-sitting up, and looked almost too young to be the mother of a child as big as Iris. She had one of the most beautiful faces God ever gave to anybody. It was not BO much that her features were perfect, but they were full of light, full of soul, and such a very loving ex- pression beamed in her eyes that no man, woman or child ever looked at her without feeling the; best in their natures coming immediately to the surface. As to little Iris, her feelings for her mother were quite beyond any words to express. She ran up to her now and knelt by her side. "Kiss me, Iris," said Mrs. Delaney. 14 A Little Mother to the Others. Iris put up her soft, rosebud lips ; they met the equally soft lips of the mother. "You are much better, mummy; are you not?" said the child, in an eager, half-passionate whisper. "I have had a long sleep, darling, and I am rested," said Mrs. Delaney. "I told Fortune to call you. Father is away for the day. I thought we could have half an hour uninterrupted." "How beautiful, mother ! It is the most delightful thing in all the world to be alone with you, mummy." "Well, bring your little chair and sit near me, Iris. For- tune will bring in tea in a moment, and you can pour it out. You shall have tea with me, if you wish it, dar- ling." Iris gave a sigh of rapture; she was too happy almost for words. This was almost invariably the case when she found herself in her mother's presence. When with her mother she was quiet and seldom spoke a great deal. In the garden with the other children Iris was the one who chattered most, but with her mother her words were always few. She felt herself then to be more or less in a listening attitude. She listened for the words which dropped from those gentle lips; she was always on the lookout for the love-light which filled the soft brown* eyes. At that moment the old servant, Fortune, brought in the tea on a pretty tray and laid it on a small table near Mrs. Delaney. Then Iris got up, and with an important air poured it out and brought a cup, nicely prepared, to her mother. Mrs. Delaney sipped her tea and looked from time to The Poor Innocent. 15 time at her little daughter. When she did so, Iris devoured her with anxious eyes. "No," she said to herself, "mother does not look ill not even very tired. She is not like anybody else, and that is why why she wears that wonderful, almost holy ex- pression. Sometimes I wish she did not, but I would not change her, not for all the world/' Iris' heart grew quiet. Her cup of bliss was quite full. She scarcely touched her tea; she was too happy even to eat." "Have you had enough tea, mother?" she asked pres- ently. "Yes, darling. Please push the tea-table a little aside, and then come up very near to me. I want to hold your dear little hand in mine; I can't talk much." "But you are better you are surely better, mother?" "In one sense, yes, Iris." Iris moved the tea-table very deftly aside, and then, drawing up her small chair, slipped her hand inside her mother's. "I have made up my mind to tell you, Iris," said the mother. She looked at the little girl for a full minute, and then began to talk in a low, clear voice. "I am the mother of four children. I don't think there are any other children like you four in the wide world. I have thought a great deal about you, and while I have been ill have prayed to God to keep you and to help me, and now, Iris, now that I have got to go away " "To go away, mother?" interrupted Iris, turning very pale. 16 A Little Mother to the Others. "Yes, dearest. Don't be troubled, darling; I can make it all seem quite happy to you. But now, when I see it must be done, that I must undertake this very long jour- ney, I want to put things perfectly straight between you and me, my little daughter/' "Things have always been straight between us, mother/' said Iris. "I don't quite understand." "Do you remember the time when I went to Australia ?" "Are you going to Australia again?" asked Iris. "You were a whole year away then. It was a very long time, and sometimes, mother, sometimes Fortune was a little cross, and Miss Stevenson never seemed to suit Apollo. I thought I would tell you about that." "But Fortune means well, dearest. She has your true interest at heart, and I think matters will be differently arranged, as far as Miss Stevenson is concerned, in the future. It is not about her or Fortune I want to speak now." "And you are going back to Australia again?" "I am going quite as far as Australia ; but we need not talk of the distance just now. I have not time for many words, nor very much strength to speak. You know, Iris, the meaning of your names, don't you ?" "Of course," answered Iris; "and, mother, I have often talked to the others about our names. I have told Apollo how beautiful he must try to be, not only in his face, but in his mind, mother, and how brave and how clever. I have told him that he must try to have a beautiful soul; and Orion must be very brave and strong, and Diana must The Poor Innocent. 17 be bright and sparkling and noble. Yes, mother; we all know about our names." "I am glad of that," said Mrs. Delaney. "I gave you the names for a purpose. I wanted you to have names with meaning to them. I wanted you to try to live up to them. Now, Iris, that I am really going away, I am afraid you children will find a great many things altered. You have hitherto lived a very sheltered life; you have just had the dear old garden and the run of the house, and you have seen your father or me every day. But af- terwards, when I have gone, you will doubtless have to go into the world; and, my darling, my darling, the cold world does not always understand the meaning of names like yours, the meaning of strength and beauty and noble- ness, and of bright, sparkling, and high ideas. In short, my little girl, if you four children are to be worthy of your names and to fulfill the dreams, the longings, the hopes I have centered around you, there is nothing what- ever for you to do but to begin to fight your battles." Iris was silent. She had very earnest eyes, something like her mother's in expression. They were fixed now on Mrs. Delaney*s face. "I will not explain exactly what I mean," said the mother, giving the little hand a loving squeeze, "only to assure you, Iris, that, as the trial comes, strength will be given to you to meet it. Please understand, my darling, that from first to last, to the end of life, it is all a fight. The road winds up-hill all the way.' If you will remem- ber that you will not think things half as hard, and you will be brave and strong, and, like the rainbow, you will 18 A Little Mother to the Others. cheer people even in the darkest hours. But, Iris, I want you to promise me one thing I want you, my little girl, to be a mother to the others." "A mother to the others?" said Iris, half aloud. She paused and did not speak at all for a moment, her imag- ination was very busy. She thought of all the creatures to whom she was already a mother, not only her own dear pets the mice in their cages, the silkworms, the three dogs, the stray cat, the pet Persian cat, the green frogs, the poor innocents, as the children called worms but in addi- tion to these, all creatures that suffered in the animal kingdom, all flowers that were about to fade, all sad things that seemed to need care and comfort. But up to the present she had never thought of the other children except as her equals. Apollo was only a year younger than herself, and in some ways braver and stouter and more fearless; and Orion and Diana were something like their names very bright and even fierce at times. She, after all, was the gentlest of the party, and she was very young not more than ten years of age. How could she possibly be a mother to the others? She looked at Mrs. Delaney, and her mother gazed sol- emnly at her, waiting for her to speak. "After all," thought Iris, "to satisfy the longing in mother's eyes is the first thing of all. I will promise, cost what it may." "Yes," she said; then softly, "I will, mother; I will be a mother to the others." "Kiss me, Iris." The Poor Innocent. 19 The little girl threw her arms round her mother's neck; their lips met in a long embrace. "Darling, you understand? I am satisfied with your promise, and I am tired." "Must I go away, mother ? May not I stay very quietly with you? Can you not sleep if I am in the room?" "I would rather you left me now. I can sleep better when no one is by. Ring the bell for Fortune as you go. She will come and make me comfortable. Yes ; I am very tired." "One moment first, mummy you have not told me yet when you are going on the journey." "The day is not quite fixed, Iris, although it is yes, it is nearly so." "And you have not said where you are going, mother. I should like to tell the others." But Mrs. Delaney had closed her eyes, and did not make any reply. CHAPTER II. A LITTLE MOTHER TO THE OTHERS. That night the children's young mother went on her journey. The summons for her to go came unexpectedly, as it often does in the end. She had not even time to say good-by to the children, nor to her husband, only just a brief moment to look, with startled eyes, at the wonderful face of the angel who had come to fetch her, and then with a smile of bliss to let him clasp her in his arms and feel his strong wings round her, and then she was away, beyond the lovely house and the beautiful gar- den, and the children sleeping quietly in their beds, and the husband who was slumbering by her side beyond the tall trees and the peaks of the highest mountains, beyond the stars themselves, until finally she entered the portals of a home that is everlasting, and found herself in a land where the flowers do not fade. In the morning the children were told that their mother was dead. They all cried, and everyone thought it dread- fully sad, except Iris, who knew better. It was Fortune who brought in the news to the children they had just gone into the day-nursery at the time. Fortune was a stern woman, somewhat over fifty years of age. She was American by birth, and had lived with 20 A Little Mother to the Others. 21 Mrs. Delaney since Iris was born. Mrs. Delaney was also American, which may have accounted for some of her bright fancies, and quiet, yet sweet and quick ways. For- tune was very fond of the children after her fashion, which was, however, as a rule, somewhat severe and exacting. But to-day, in her bitter grief, she sank down on the nearest chair, and allowed them all to crowd round her, and cried bitterly, and took little Orion in her arms and kissed him and petted him, and begged of each child to forgive her for ever having been cross or disagreeable, and promised, as well and as heartily as she could, never to transgress again in that manner as long as she lived. While the others were sobbing and crying round For- tune, Iris stood silent. "Where is father?" she said at last, in a very quiet but determined voice. Fortune glanced round at the grave little girl in some wonder. "Miss Iris," she said, "you are not even crying." "What do tears matter?" answered Iris. "Please, For- tune, where is father? I should like to go to him." "He is locked up in his study, darling, and could not possibly see you nor anyone else. He is quite stunned, master is, and no wonder. You cannot go to him at pres- ent, Miss Iris." Iris did not say another word, but she looked more grave and more thoughtful than ever. After a long pause she sat down in her own little chair near the open window. It was a very lovely day, just as beautiful as the one which had preceded it. As the child sat by the window, and the 22 A Little Mother to the Others. soft, sweet breeze fanned her pale cheeks, an indescribable longing came over her. No one was particularly noticing her. She crept softly out of the room, ran down some passages, and at last found herself once more mounting the turret stairs to the tower. A moment later she had entered the octagon room where she and her mother had talked together on the previous day. The windows were wide open, the pretty room looked just as usual, but mother's sofa was vacant. Iris went straight over to one of the open windows, knelt down, and put her little elbows on the ledge. "Yes, mother," she said, speaking aloud and looking full up at the bright blue sky, "I promise you. I prom- ised you yesterday, but I make a fresh, very, very solemn promise to-day. Yes, I will be a mother to the others; I will try never to think of myself; I will remember, mother darling, exactly what you want me to do. I will try to be beautiful, to be a little messenger of the gods, as you sometimes said I might be, and to be like the rain- bow, full of hope. And I will try to help Apollo to be the most beautiful and the bravest boy in the world; and, mother, I will do my best to help Diana to be strong and bright and full of courage; and I will do what I can for Orion he must be grand like a giant, so that he may live up to the wonderful name you have given him. Mother, it will be very hard, but I promise, I promise with all my might, to do everything you want me to do. I will act just as if you were there and could see, mother, and P^will always remember that it is beautiful for you to have gone away, for while you were here you had so A Little Mother to the Others. 23 much pain and so much illness. I won't fret, mother; no, I won't fret I promise to be a mother to the others, and there won't be any time to fret." No tears came to Iris' bright eyes, but her little thin face grew paler and paler. Presently she left the window and went slowly downstairs again. Fortune had now left the other children to themselves. They were scattered about the bright day nursery, looking miserable, though they could scarcely tell why. "I don't believe a bit that mother is never coming back," said Orion, in a stout, determined voice. He was a very handsome little fellow, strongly made he had great big black eyes like his father's. He was standing now with his Noah's ark in his hand. "It is unfeeling of you to want to play with your Noah's ark to-day, Orion," said Apollo. "Now, do you think I would go into my laboratory and try to make a thermome- ter?" "Well, at least," said Diana, speaking with a sort of jerk, and her small face turning crimson, "whatever hap- pens, the animals must be fed." "Of course they must, Diana," said Iris, coming for- ward, "and, Apollo, there is not the least harm in our going into the garden, and I don't think there is any harm in Orion playing with his Noah's ark. Come, chil- dren; come with me. We will feed all the pets and then go into the arbor, and, if you like, I will tell you stories." "What sort of stories?" asked Diana, in quite a cheer- ful voice. She trotted up to her sister, and gave her her 24 A Little Mother to the Others. hand as she spoke. She also was a finely made child, not unlike her name. "I 'gree with Orion/' she said. "I'm quite certain sure that mother is coming back 'fore long. Fortune did talk nonsense^ She said, Iris do you know what she said? she said that in the middle of the night, just when it was black dark, you know, a white angel came into the room and took mother in his arms and flew up to the sky with her. You don't believe that; do you, Iris?" "Yes, I do, Diana," answered Iris. "But I will tell you more about it in the arbor. Come, Apollo; mother would not like us to stay in the house just because she has gone away to the angels. Mother never was the least little bit selfish. Come into the garden." The three forlorn-looking little children were much comforted by Iris' brave words. They dried their eyes, and Diana ran into the night nursery to fetch their hats. They then ran downstairs without anyone specially notic- ing them, passed through the great entrance hall, and out on to the wide gravel sweep, which led by a side walk into the lovely garden. Iris held Diana by one hand and Orion by the other, and Apollo ran on in front. "Now, then," said Iris, when they had reached the garden, "we must begin by feeding all the pets." "There are an awful lot of them," said Diana, in quite a cheerful voice; "and don't you remember, Iris, the poor innocent was not buried yesterday?" Iris could not help giving a little shiver. "No more it was," she said, in a low tone. "It must A Little Mother to the Others. 25 have quite a private funeral. Please get some dock leaves, Apollo." "Yes," answered Apollo. He ran off, returning with a bunch in a moment or two. "Take them into the dead-house," said Iris, "and sew them up and put the poor innocent inside, and then take your spade and dig a hole in the cemetery. We can't have a public funeral. I I don't feel up to it," she added, her lips trembling for the first time. Diana nestled close up to Iris. "You need not look sad, Iris," she said; "there's no cause, is there? I don't believe that story 'bout mother, and if it is not true there'll be nothing wrong in my laughing, will there ?" "You may laugh if you like, darling," answered Iris. They all entered the arbor now, and Iris seated herself in the little chair which mother had seen father make, and round which the beautiful flowers of the iris had been carved. "Laugh, Di," she said again; "I know mother won't mind." For a full moment Diana stood silent, staring at her sister ; then her big black eyes, which had been full of the deepest gloom, brightened. A butterfly passed the en- trance to the summer-house, and Diana flew after it, chasing it with a loud shout and a gay, hearty fit of laughter. Apollo came back with the stray cat, whose name was "Trust," in his arms. "She looks miserable, poor thing," he said. "I don't 26 A Little Mother to the Others. believe she has had anything to eat to-day. She must have her breakfast, as usual; must she not, Iris?" "Yes; we must feed all the pets/' said Iris, making a great effort to brighten up. "Let us go regularly to work, all of us. Apollo, will you take the birds? You may as well clean out their cages they are sure to want it. I will collect flies for the green frogs, and Orion, you may pick mulberry leaves for the silk-worms." For the next hour the children were busily employed. No one missed them in the house. The house was full of shade, but the garden, although mother had left it for- ever, was quite bright; the sun shone as brilliantly as it did every other day; a great many fresh flowers had come out; there was a very sweet smell from the opening roses, and in especially the Scotch roses, white and red, made a waft of delicious perfume as the children ran up and down. "I'm awfully hungry," said Diana suddenly. "But we won't go into the house for lunch to-day," said Iris. "Let us have a fruit lunch I think mother would like us to have a fruit lunch just for to-day. Please, Apollo, go into the other garden and pick some of the ripest strawberries. There were a great many ripe yes- terday, and there are sure to be more to-day. Bring a big leaf full, and we can eat them in the summer-house." Apollo ran off at once. He brought back a good large leaf of strawberries, and Iris divided them into four por- tions. Diana and Orion, seated on their little chairs, ate theirs with much gusto, and just as happily as if mother had not gone away; but as to Iris, notwithstanding her brave words and her determination not to think of her- A Little Mother to the Others. 27 self, the strawberries tasted like wood in her mouth. There was also a great lump in her throat, and a feeling of depression was making itself felt more and more, moment by moment. Apollo sat down beside his sister, and glanced from time to time into her face. "I cannot think why I don't really care for the straw- berries to-day," he said suddenly. "I " His lips trembled. "Iris," he said, gazing harder than ever at his sister, "you have got such a queer look on your face." "Don't notice it, please, Apollo," answered Iris. "I wish 3'ou would cry," said the boy. "When Fortune came in and told us the the dreadful news, we all cried and we kissed her, and she cried and she said she was sorry she had ever been unkind to us; but I remember, Iris, you did not shed one tear, and you you always seemed to love, mother the best of us all." "And I love her still the best," said Iris, in a soft voice; "but, Apollo, I have something else to do." And then she added, lowering her tones, "You know, I can't be sorry about mother herself. I can only be glad about her." "Glad about mother ! Glad that she is dead !" said the boy. "Oh, I don't think about that part," said Iris. "She is not dead not really. She is only away up above the stars and the blue sky, and she will never have any more suffering, and she will always be as happy as happy can be, find sometime or other, Apollo, I think she will be able to 28 A Little Mother to the Others. come back; and, if she can, I am sure she will. Yes, I am quite sure she will." "If she comes back we shall see her," said Apollo;