"What am I to do, Evangeline?" said Mr. Delaney, a few moments later. He stood up as he spoke, shook himself, and gazed straight before him. It was exactly as if he were really speaking to the children's mother. Then again he buried his face in his big hands, and his strong frame shook. After a moment's pause he took up a photograph which stood near, and looked earnestly at the beautiful pictured face. The eyes, so full of truth and tenderness, seemed to answer him back. He started abruptly to his feet. "You always directed me, Evangeline," he said. "God only knows what I am to do now that you have left me. I am in some matters as weak as a reed, great, blustering fellow though I appear. And now that Jane has come—she always did bully me—now that she has come and wants to take matters into her own hands, oh, Evangeline! what is to be done? The fact is, I am not fit to manage this great house, nor the children, without you. The children are not like others; they will not stand the treatment which ordinary children receive. Oh, why has Jane, of all people, come? What am I to do?"

He paced rapidly up and down his big study; clenching his hands at times, at times making use of a strong exclamation.

The butler knocked at the door. "Dinner will be
[37]
served in half an hour, sir," he said. "Am I to lay for two?"

"Yes, Johnson. Mrs. Dolman, my sister, has arrived, and will dine with me. Have places laid for two."

The man withdrew, and Mr. Delaney, stepping out through the open window, looked across the lawns which his sister had so strongly disapproved of.

"Jane was always the one to poke her finger into every pie," he said half aloud. "Certainly this place is distasteful to me now, and there is—upon my word, there is something in her suggestion. But to deliver over those four children to her, and to take them away from the garden, and the house, and the memory of their mother—oh! it cannot be thought of for a moment; and yet, to shift the responsibility while my heart is so sore would be an untold relief."

A little voice in the distance was heard shouting eagerly, and a small child, very dirty about the hands and face, came trotting up to Mr. Delaney. It was Diana. She was sobbing as well as shouting, and was holding something tenderly wrapped up in her pocket handkerchief.

"What is the matter with you, Di?" said her father. He lifted her into his arms. "Why, little woman, what can be the matter? and what have you got in your handkerchief?"

"It's Rub-a-Dub, and he is deaded," answered Diana. She unfolded the handkerchief carefully and slowly, and showed her father a small piebald mouse, quite dead, and with a shriveled appearance. "He is as dead as he can be," repeated Diana. "Look at him. His little claws are blue, and oh! his little nose, and he cannot see; he is stone dead, father."
[38]

"Well, you shall go into Beaminster to-morrow and buy another mouse," said Mr. Delaney.

Diana gazed at him with grave, wondering black eyes.

"That would not be Rub-a-Dub," she said; then she buried her little, fat face on his shoulder and sobs shook her frame.

"Evangeline would have known exactly what to say to the child," muttered the father, in a fit of despair. "Come along, little one," he said. "What can't be cured must be endured, you know. Now, take my hand and I'll race you into the house."

The child gave a wan little smile; but the thought of the mouse lay heavy against her heart.

"May I go back to the garden first?" she said. "I want to put Rub-a-Dub into the dead-house."

"The dead-house, Diana? What do you mean?"

"It is the house where we keep the poor innocents, and all the other creatures what get deaded," said Diana. "We keep them there until Iris has settled whether they are to have a pwivate or a public funeral. Iris does not know yet about Rub-a-Dub. He was quite well this morning. I don't know what he could have died of. Perhaps, father, if you look at him you will be able to tell me."

"Well, let me have a peep," said the man, his mustache twitching as he spoke.

Diana once again unfolded her small handkerchief, in the center of which lay the much shriveled-up mouse.

"The darling!" said the little girl tenderly. "I loved Rub-a-Dub so much; I love him still. I do hope Iris will think him 'portant enough for a public funeral."

"Look here," said Mr. Delaney, interested in spite
[39]
of himself, and forgetting all about the dinner which would be ready in a few minutes; "I'll come right along with you to the dead-house; but I did not know, Di, that you kept an awful place of that sort in the garden."

"Tisn't awful," said Diana. "We has to keep a dead-house when we find dead things. We keep all the dead 'uns we find there. There aren't as many as usual to-day—only a couple of butterflies and two or three beetles, and a poor crushed spider. And oh! I forgot the toad that we found this morning. It was awful hurt and Apollo had to kill it; he had to stamp on it and kill it; and he did not like it a bit. Iris can't kill things, nor can I, nor can Orion, so we always get Apollo to kill the things that are half dead—to put them out of their misery, you know, father."

"You seem to be a very wise little girl; but I am sure this cannot be at all wholesome work," said the father, looking more bewildered and puzzled than ever.

Diana gazed gravely up at him. She did not know anything about the work being wholesome or the reverse. The dead creatures had to be properly treated, and had to be buried either privately or publicly—that was essential—nothing else mattered at all to her.

"As Rub-a-Dub is such a dear darlin', I should not be s'prised if Iris did have a public funeral," she commented.

"But what is the difference, Di? Tell me," said her father.

"Oh, father! you are ig'rant. At a pwivate funeral the poor dead 'un is just sewn up in dock leaves and stuck into a hole in the cemetery."

[40]

"The cemetery! Good Heavens, child! do you keep a cemetery in the garden?"

"Indeed we does, father. We have a very large one now, and heaps and heaps of gravestones. Apollo writes the insipcron. He is quite bothered sometimes. He says the horrid work is give to him,—carving the names on the stones and killing the half-dead 'uns,—but course he has to do it 'cos Iris says so. Course we all obey Iris. When it is a pwivate funeral, the dead 'un is put into the ground and covered up, and it don't have a gravestone; then of course, by and by, it is forgot. You underland; don't you, father?"

"Bless me if I do," said Mr. Delaney, in a puzzled tone.

"But if it is a public funeral," continued Diana, strutting boldly forward now, and throwing back her head in quite a martial attitude, "why, then it's grand. There is a box just like a coffin, and cotton wool—we steal the cotton wool most times. We know where Fortune has got a lot of it put away. Iris does not think it quite right to steal, but the rest of us don't mind. And we have banners, and Orion plays the Jew's harp, and I beat the drum, and Iris sings, and Apollo digs the grave, and the dead 'un is put into the ground, and we all cry, or pretend to cry. Sometimes I do squeeze out a tiny tear, but I'm so incited I can't always manage it, although I'm sure I'll cry when Rub-a-Dub is put into the ground. Then afterwards there is a tombstone, and Iris thinks of the insipcron. I spects we'll have a beautiful insipcron for poor Rub-a-Dub, 'cos we all loved him so much."

"Well, all this is very interesting, of course," said Mr. Delaney. "But now we must be quick, because your Aunt Jane has come."
[41]

"Who's her?" asked Diana.

"A very good lady indeed—your aunt."

"What's an aunt?"

"A lady whom you ought to love very much."

"Ought I? I never love people I ought to love," said Diana firmly. "Please, father, this is the dead-house. You can come right in if you like, father, and see the dead 'uns; they are all lying on this shelf. Most of them is to be buried pwivate, 'cos they are not our own pets, you know; but Rub-a-Dub is sure to have a public funeral, and an insipcron, and all the rest."

Mr. Delaney followed Diana into the small shed which the children called the dead-house. He gazed solemnly at the shelf which she indicated, and on which lay the several dead 'uns.

"Put your mouse down now," he said, "and come along back with me to the house at once. You ought to have been in bed long ago."

Diana laid the mouse sorrowfully down in the midst of its dead brethren, shut the door of the dead-house, and followed her father up the garden path.

"It's a most beautiful night," she said, after a pause. "It's going to be a starful night; isn't it, father?"

"Starful?" said Mr. Delaney.

"Yes; and when it is a starful night Orion can't sleep well, 'cos he is a star hisself; isn't he, father?"

"Good gracious, child, no! He is a little boy!"

"No, no, father! You are awfu' mistook. Mother called him a star. I'll show you him up in the sky if it really comes to be a starful night. May I, father?"

"Some time, my darling; but now you must hurry
[42]
in, for I have to get ready for dinner. Kiss me, Di. Good-night. God bless you, little one!"

"B'ess you too, father," said Diana. "I love 'oo awfu' well."

She raised her rosebud lips, fixed her black eyes on her parent's face, kissed him solemnly, and trotted away into the house. When she got close to it, a great sob came up from her little chest. She thought again of the dead Rub-a-Dub, but then the chance of his having a public funeral consoled her. She longed to find Iris.

Full of this thought, her little heart beating more quickly than usual, she rushed up the front stairs, and was turning down the passage which led to the nursery, when she was confronted by a short, stout woman dressed in black.

"Now, who is this little girl, I wonder?" said a high-pitched, cheery voice.

"It is not your little girl; and I am in a hurry, please," said Diana, who could be very rude when she liked. She did not wish to be interrupted now; she wanted to find Iris to tell her of the sad fate of Rub-a-Dub.

"Highty-tighty!" exclaimed the little lady, "that is no way to speak to grown-up people. I expect, too, you are one of my little nieces. Come here at once and say, 'How do you do?'"

"Are you the aunt?" asked Diana solemnly.

"The aunt!" replied Mrs. Dolman. "I am your aunt, my dear. What is your name?"

"Diana. Please, aunt, don't clutch hold of my hand; I want to find Iris."

"Of all the ridiculous names," muttered Mrs. Dolman under her breath. "Well, child, I am inclined
[43]
to keep you for a moment, as I want to talk to you. Do you know, you rude little girl, that I have come a long way to see you. Of course, my little girl, I know you are sad at present; but you must try to get over your great sorrow."

"Do you know, then, about Rub-a-Dub?" said Diana, her whole face changing, and a look of keen interest coming into it.

If Aunt—whatever her other name was—should turn out to be interested in Rub-a-Dub, and sorry for his untimely end, why, then, Diana felt there was a possibility of her squeezing a little corner for her in her hearts of hearts. But Mrs. Dolman's next words disturbed the pleasant illusion.

"You are a poor little orphan, my child," she said. "Your poor, dear mother's death must be a terrible sorrow to you; but, believe me, you will get over it after a time."

"I has quite got over it awready," answered Diana, in a cheerful voice. "It would be awfu' selfish to be sorry 'bout mother, 'cos mother is not suffering any more pain, you know. I am very glad 'bout mother. I am going to her some day. Please don't squeeze my hand like that. Good-by, aunt; I weally can't stay another moment."

She trotted off, and Mrs. Dolman gazed after her with a petrified expression of horror on her round face.

"Well," she said to herself, "if ever! And the poor mother was devoted to them all, and she is scarcely a week in her grave, and yet that mite dares to say she has got over it. What nonsense she talked, and what a queer name she has. Now, our family names are sensible and suited for the rising generation. We
[44]
have had our Elizabeths and our Anns, and our Lucys and our Marys, and, of course, there is Jane, my name. All these are what I call good old respectable Delaney names; but Diana and Iris make me sick. And I believe, if report tells true, that there are some still more extraordinary names in the family. What a rude, dirty little child! I did not like her manners at all, and how neglected she looked. I shall follow her; it is my manifest duty to see to these children at once. Oh! I shall have difficulty in breaking them in, but broken in they must be!"

Accordingly Mrs. Dolman turned down the passage where Diana's fat legs disappeared. The eager but gentle flow of voices directed her steps, and presently she opened the door of a large room and looked in.

She found herself unexpectedly on the threshold of the day-nursery. It was a beautiful room, facing due west; the last rays of the evening sun were shining in at the open windows; some children were collected in a corner of the room. Diana had gone on her knees beside a girl a little older and slighter than herself. Her plump elbows were resting on the girl's knee, her round hands were pressed to her rounder cheeks, and her black eyes were fixed upon the girl's face.

The elder girl, very quiet and calm, had one hand on Diana's shoulder, her other arm was thrown round a handsome little boy, not unlike Diana in appearance, while an older boy sat on a hassock at her feet.

"I will listen to you presently, Diana," said Iris. "Now, I must finish my story."

"Yes, please go on, Iris," said Orion; "it's all about me, and I'm 'mensely inte'sted."

"Very well, Orion. The King of Chios did not want his daughter to marry you."
[45]

"Good gracious!" muttered Mrs. Dolman in the doorway.

"So he let you fall sound asleep," continued Iris, in her calm voice. None of the children had yet seen the stout personage on the threshold of the room. "He let you fall very sound asleep, having given you some strong wine."

"What next?" thought Mrs. Dolman.

"And when you were very sound asleep indeed, he put out both your eyes. When you awoke you found yourself quite blind, and did not know what to do or where to go. Suddenly, in the midst of your misery, you heard the sound of a blacksmith's forge. Guided by the noise, you reached the place and begged the blacksmith to climb on your shoulders, and so lend you his eyes to guide you. The blacksmith was willing to do it, and seated himself on your shoulders. Then you said, 'Guide me to the place where I can see the first sunbeam that rises in the east over the sea,' and—"

"Yes," said Orion, whose breath was coming quickly, "yes; and what happened to me then?"

"Nonsense, little boy! Don't you listen to another word of that folly," said a very strong, determined voice.

All the children turned abruptly.

"Oh, she has come bothering!" said Diana.

But the other three had started to their feet, and a flush rose into Iris' pale face.