"Yes, father, go to s'eep," echoed Diana. "I underland all 'bout it. You won't have no hobgoblins now to dweam about, for I has got off your knees. They was lovely and flat, and I didn't mind sitting on them one bit."

"All the same, Diana, I am obliged to you for getting off," said Mr. Delaney, "for I was beginning to get quite a terrible cramp, to say nothing of my sensations at having this giant Orion planting himself on my chest. I will have a long talk with you all, darlings, in the course of the day, and I do hope you won't be very unhappy with your Aunt Jane Dolman."

"We'll be mis'ble, but it can't be helped," said Diana. "I never did like aunts, and I'm never going to, what's more. Come 'long now, sildrens. It's a gweat nuisance getting up so early, particular when father can't help hisself. Can you, father? Go to s'eep now, father. Come 'long this minute, back to bed, sildrens."

Diana looked really worthy of her distinguished name as she strode down the passage and returned to the night-nursery. She and Orion slipped into their respective little cots and lay down without waking either Fortune or Susan, who slept in beds at the opposite side of the room. Iris and Apollo also returned to their beds, and presently Apollo dropped asleep, for, though he had an alarming temper, his fits of passion never lasted long. But Iris did not close her bright brown eyes again that morning. She lay awake, full of troubled thoughts—thoughts far too old for her tender years.

It was one of Fortune's fads never on any occasion to awaken a sleeping child, and as the other children slept rather longer than usual after their early waking, breakfast was in consequence full half an hour late in the day-nursery that morning. At last, however, it was finished. No special lessons had been attended to since mother had gone away to the angels, and the children, snatching up their hats, rushed off as fast as possible to the garden. When they got there they all four breathed freely. This at least was their own domain—their fairyland, their country of adventure. From here they could travel to goodness only knew where—sometimes to the stars with bright Apollo and brave Orion—sometimes to happy hunting fields with Diana, the goddess of the chase, and sometimes they might even visit the rainbow, with sweet Iris as their companion.

There never were happier children than these four in that lovely, lovely beyond words, garden. When the children went into it, it seemed as if an additional ray of sunshine had come out to fill all the happy world with light and love and beauty. The bees hummed more industriously than ever, the flowers opened their sweet eyes and gazed at the children, the animals came round them in a group.

On this special morning, however, Diana's dear little face looked very grave and full of business.

"It's most 'citing," she said. "'Fore we does anything else we must 'tend to the funerals—there is such a lot of dead 'uns to bury this morning. Come 'long to the dead-house at once, Iris."

"I must smell the Scotch roses first," answered Iris.

"You can do that afterwards, can't you? There's poor Rub-a-Dub. We has to 'cide whether he is to have a public or a pwivate funeral, or whether he is just to be sewn up in dock leaves, and put into the gwound p'omisc's."

Diana had a great facility for taking up long words, which she always used in the most matter-of-fact style, not in the least caring how she pronounced them.

The other children could not help laughing at her now, and the four hurried off as fast as they possibly could to the dead-house.

This unpleasantly named abode was in reality a pretty little shed in one corner of the old garden. It contained a door with lock and key, a nice little window, and everything fitted up for the keeping of tools and carpenters' implements. Long ago, however, the children decided that here the dead animals of all sorts and species were to be kept until the solemn moment of interment.

Iris looked just as grave as the others when she unlocked the door of the dead-house now, and they all entered. The dead 'uns were decently laid out on a shelf, just in front of the public view. There was a dead bee, and two butterflies; there were two dead worms and a dead toad; also three or four beetles in different stages of decomposition, and a terribly crushed spider—and solemnly lying in the midst of his dead brethren lay Rub-a-Dub, the precious and dearly loved piebald mouse.

"They look beautiful, poor darlin's," said Diana; "they will most fill up the cemetery. Now please, Iris, which is to have a public funeral?"

"Of course Rub-a-Dub must," answered Iris. "As to the others—"

"Don't you think that poor toad, Iris?" said Diana, wrinkling up her brows, and gazing anxiously at her sister. "The toad seems to me to be rather big to have only a pwivate funeral. We could scarcely get dock leaves enough."

"We must try," answered Iris; "the toad must be buried privately with the others. We always make it a rule—don't you remember, Di—only to give public funerals to our own special pets."

"All wight," answered Diana. She was very easily brought round to accept Iris' view. In her heart of hearts she considered Iris' verdict like the laws of the Medes and Persians—something which could not possibly be disputed.

"Run, Orion!" she said; "be quick, and fetch as many dock leaves as possible. I will thread a needle so as to sew up the poor dead 'uns in their coffins. We must get through the pwivate funerals as quick as possible this morning, and then we'll be weady for poor Rub-a-Dub."

"Rub-a-Dub is to be buried exactly at eleven o'clock," said Iris.

"We'll all wear mourning, course?" asked Diana.

"Yes; black bows."

"And are the dogs and the other animals to wear mourning?"

"Black bows," repeated Iris.

"That is most lovely and 'citing," said Diana.

Orion left the dead-house, and presently returned with a great pile of dock leaves. Then the children sat down on the floor and began to sew coffins for the different dead 'uns. They were accustomed to the work and did it expeditiously and well. When all the poor dead 'uns were supplied with coffins they were carried in a tray across the garden to the far-famed cemetery. Here they were laid in that part of the ground apportioned to private funerals. Apollo made small holes with his spade, and each dead 'un in his small coffin was returned to mother earth. The ground was immediately covered over, and Apollo trampled on it with his feet. He did this on the present occasion with right good will. "I'll be rather glad when the funerals are over," he said, looking at Iris as he spoke, "for I want to get on with my ship. I have got hold of some canvas the gardener brought me from town, and I really believe I may be able to make a funnel and a place for boiling water. You would like to see my ship when it is afloat; would you not, Iris?"

"Yes; very much indeed," answered Iris.

"I call ships stupid," said Diana. "I don't see no use in 'em. Now, do let us hurry back. Poor Rub-a-Dub will be so lonely."

"It's you who is silly now," said Orion. "You know Rub-a-Dub can't feel; don't you, Di?"

"I know nothing 'bout it," said Diana. "I want to hurry back to get his beautiful public funeral weady. Now, look here, 'Rion; will you go into the house to steal the cotton wool, or shall I?"

"What is that I hear?" said a voice which seemed to come from right over the children's heads.

They all looked up in alarm, to see Aunt Jane Dolman and their father standing close by. Mr. Delaney wore an amused, and Aunt Jane a scared expression.

"What were you saying, little girl?" she continued, taking Diana by her arm and giving her a slight shake; "that you wished to steal something?"

"Yes; some cotton wool," said Diana; "it's most 'portant; it's for a public funeral."

Mrs. Dolman turned her round black eyes on her brother. Horror was expressed in each movement of her face.

"My dear Jane," he said, sotto voce, "there are several things which these children do which will astonish you very much. Don't you think you had better give up the scheme?"

"Not I, David," she replied. "The more I see of the poor neglected mites the more I long to rescue them from evident destruction."

He shook his head and looked with some pity at Iris.

"Shall Orion go to steal the cotton wool?" repeated Diana, who looked as if it was impossible for anyone in this world to terrify her in the very least.

"If it must be stolen, and if you ask me," said Mr. Delaney, "perhaps Orion may as well be the thief as anyone else. In the old times of the heathen deities I believe they did now and then stoop to that small crime."

"David, it is appalling to hear you speak," said Mrs. Dolman. "Orion, I hate to pronounce your name, but listen to me, little boy. I forbid you to go if you are bent on theft."

"But I must go," said Orion. "Poor Rub-a-Dub must be buried, and I must have a box for his coffin and cotton wool to lay him in."

"See here, Orion," said the father; "where do you get the cotton wool?"

"We gen'ly get it from Fortune's box in the night-nursery," replied Orion.

"And you steal it?"

"Oh, yes; she would make such a fuss if we asked her for some. We always steal it for public funerals."

"Well, on this occasion, and to spare your aunt's feelings, tell Fortune that I desire her to give you some.

"Now, Jane," continued Mr. Delaney, "as you are here, and as I am here, we may both of us as well witness this ceremony. The children are fond of doing all honor to their pets, even after the supreme moment of dissolution. Shall we witness this public funeral?"

Mrs. Dolman looked wonderfully inclined to say "No," but as her object now was to humor her brother as far as possible, she agreed very unwillingly to wait.

Accordingly he and she began to pace up and down the lovely garden, and soon, in the interest which the sight of the unforgotten playground of her youth excited within her, her brow cleared, and she became pleasant and even talkative. The two were in the midst of a very interesting conversation, and were pacing up and down not far from the summer-house, when Orion's clear voice was heard. "The public funeral is going to begin," he shouted, "so you had best come along if you want to see it. If you don't, Diana and me, and Apollo and Iris—why, we don't care."

"Oh, we'll come, you rude little body," said his father, laughing and chuckling as he spoke. "You mark my words, Jane," he continued, "you will have a handful with those children."

"Oh, I'll manage them," said Mrs. Dolman. "I have not lived my thirty-five years for nothing; they certainly need managing, poor little spoilt creatures."

They both hurried to the cemetery, where Apollo was standing, having dug a grave nearly a foot deep, and large enough to hold a square cardboard box. He stood leaning on his spade now, his hat pushed off, his handsome little face slightly flushed with the exercise, his eyes full of a sort of gloomy defiance. But now the funeral procession was coming on apace. Orion's mouth was much puffed out because he was blowing vigorously on his Jew's harp, Diana followed him beating a little drum, and Iris, with long black ribbons fastened to her flowing chestnut locks, was walking behind, carrying the tiny coffin. Iris, as she walked, rang an old dinner bell in a very impressive manner, and also sang a little dirge to the accompaniment of the bell and the two other children's music. These were the words Iris sang:

"Ding-a-dong, Rub-a-Dub's dead; Good-by, Rub-a-Dub. Sleep well in your little bed; Good-by, Rub-a-Dub.

"We'll put a stone at your head and your feet; Good-by, Rub-a-Dub. And you shall sleep very sound and sweet; Good-by, Rub-a-Dub. And you'll never know fear any more; Little dear; Good-by, Rub-a-Dub."

Iris was a poet on occasions, and she had made up these impressive lines in great haste while the other children were arranging minor details of the funeral.

As the mourning party approached the open grave, Apollo came forward and dropped on his knees. The coffin was supplied with strings of white satin ribbon, and was lowered with great solemnity into the grave. Then the four mourners stood over it and each of them sang the last words of Iris' poem:

"And you'll never know fear any more, Little dear; Good-by, Rub-a-Dub."

The moment this was over flowers were strewn upon the box, and Apollo with great vigor began to shovel in the earth.

"Make a nice high mound," said Diana; "let it look as like a weal gwave as possible." Then she turned eagerly to her sister. "When are we to see about making the tombstone for the head and the feet?" she asked.

"We'll talk it over this evening," answered Iris.

It may here be noted that none of the four mourners took the slightest notice of Mr. Delaney or of Mrs. Dolman. To them it was as if these two grown-up spectators did not exist—they were all lost in their own intensely important world.

"Well," said Mrs. Dolman, as she turned away with her brother, "of all the heathenish and wicked nonsense that I was ever permitted to witness, this beats everything. It is a right good thing—yes, I will say it frankly, David—that you are going abroad, and that your benighted children are handed over to me. When you come back in a year or two—I assure you, my dear brother, I do not wish to hurry you—but when you come back in a few years you will see, please Providence, very different children waiting to welcome you."

"Well, Jane," said David Delaney, "I have arranged to give the children to you, and I hope to Heaven I am doing right; but do not spoil them whatever you do, for to me and to their sainted mother they were ever the sweetest little quartette that breathed the breath of life." Mr. Delaney's eyes filled with sudden tears as he said these words. "Good-by, Rub-a-Dub," he whispered as he left the garden. "Yes, there are many good-bys in the air just now."



CHAPTER VII.

BUT ANN COULD NOT HELP LETTING OUT NOW AND THEN.

The Rectory at Super-Ashton was a large, sunny, cheerful house. It was filled with every modern convenience, and possessed plenty of rooms papered with light, bright-looking papers, and painted also in cheerful colors. The windows were large and let in every scrap of sunshine; the passages and hall and stairs were broad and roomy; the nurseries and the children's rooms were models of comfort; the servants were all well behaved and thoroughly accustomed to their duties; the meals were punctual to a moment; in fact, nothing was left to chance at Super-Ashton Rectory.

Mrs. Dolman was the life and soul of this extremely orderly English home. She was one of the most active little women in the world. She invariably got up, summer and winter, soon after six o'clock, and might be seen bustling about the house, and bustling about the garden, and bustling about the parish from that moment until she retired to rest again, somewhere between ten and eleven at night. She was never exactly cross, but she was very determined. She had strict ideas, and made everyone in the parish not only respect her and look up to her, but live up to her rule of life. She was, as a matter of fact, thought a great deal more of by the parishioners than her husband, the Reverend William Dolman, and the real Rector of Super-Ashton.

Mr. Dolman was a very large man, tall in stature and broad. He was also fat and loosely built. He had a kindly face and a good-humored way of talking. He preached very fair sermons on Sundays, and attended to his duties, but without any of the enthusiasm which his wife displayed.

When Mrs. Dolman wrote to her husband to say that she was returning home with the four little Delaneys, it caused considerable excitement at the breakfast table. Five little hearts beat considerably faster than usual; but so great were the order and regularity of the household that the five little faces to which the hearts belonged remained apparently impassive.

Miss Ramsay, the governess, was presiding at the head of the table. The Dolman girls were neatly dressed in print frocks with white pinafores; the boys wore holland blouses and knickerbockers. The boys happened to be the two youngest of the family, and none of the children had yet gone to school. The name and ages of the five were as follows: First came Lucy, aged twelve; then Mary, aged ten; then Ann, aged nine; then Philip and Conrad, aged respectively seven and a half and six. The faces of the whole five bore a curious resemblance to both father and mother, the eldest girl having the round, black eyes of her mother, and the large, somewhat irregular features of the father. Mary resembled Lucy in being fat and largely built, but her eyes were blue instead of black; while little Ann had a small face, with gray eyes and rather sensitive lips. The complexions of the three were fair, and their good looks were rather above the average. They were proper, neat-looking little girls, and, notwithstanding their inward excitement, they ate their breakfast tidily, and took good care not to express any emotion before Miss Ramsay or their good-natured father.

"Yes," said Mr. Dolman, looking at them, and pushing his spectacles up on his forehead, "yes, that is the news. Your mother returns to-night, and the four Delaneys with her. Let me see what else she says." He replaced his spectacles on his nose and looked over his wife's letter again. "These are the very words," he said; "Observe, Miss Ramsay, that I read from the letter. 'I return by the train which reaches Super-Ashton at six o'clock, and will bring the four Delaneys with me.' Four, you see, Lucy; that is the number. But mamma does not mention the sex of the children. How many boys or how many girls? I really am quite out of date with regard to your cousins, my love."

"But I know all about them, papa," burst from Ann's eager lips.

"You forget your French, Ann," said Miss Ramsay, laying her hand on the little girl's arm. "You will be punished if you speak English again at meals."

Ann colored and dropped her eyes. She began to eat her bread and butter hastily; she longed beyond words to tell the others the knowledge she had secretly acquired about her cousins the Delaneys.

"'Please send the wagonette to the station,'" continued Mr. Dolman, reading his wife's letter, and holding it close to his eyes, "'and—yes, the cart for the luggage, as the children'—um, um, um, that part is private, my dears."

Mr. Dolman dropped his spectacles and nodded at the eager little group round the table.

"Well," he continued, "I am glad mamma is coming home. I have really been quite bothered by the parishioners since she went away. There is always a vast deal of work left undone when mamma is absent, eh, children? eh, Miss Ramsay?"

"I agree with you, Mr. Dolman," said Miss Ramsay. "Mrs. Dolman does not spare herself; she will have her reward some day."

"God grant it!" said Mr. Dolman, with a heavy sigh. "She certainly will need rest whenever she does leave this world, for I never did come across such an active woman."

He left the room, hitching up his huge shoulders as he did so, and slammed the door noisily behind him.

"Papa would not do that if mamma were here," whispered Philip to Ann.

Ann said "Hush!" in a frightened tone, and then Miss Ramsay folded her hands as an intimation to the children that the meal was at an end, and that one of them was to say grace.

Immediately after breakfast they went upstairs to the schoolroom, and lessons began, just as if no four little Delaneys were to arrive to turn everything topsy-turvy that evening.

Lessons proceeded without any interruption until twelve o'clock. Then the three little girls retired to the neat bedroom which they shared together, and put on their sun-bonnets, their white capes, and their washing-gloves, and came back again to Miss Ramsay, equipped for their walk. The boys, with straw hats sticking very far back on their heads, were also waiting Miss Ramsay's pleasure in the hall downstairs. The children and the governess went out walking solemnly two and two, Miss Ramsay and Conrad in front, Lucy and Mary following, with Ann and Philip behind.

It was a hot day; but Miss Ramsay never excused the morning walk on the dusty highroads. The children came in very much flushed and tired at one o'clock for dinner. They assembled again in the big, cool dining room and ate their roast mutton and peas and new potatoes, and rice pudding and stewed fruit with the propriety of children who have been thoroughly well brought up.

At dinner French was again the only language allowed to be spoken. In consequence there was a sad dearth of any conversation at that dinner table.

After dinner Mr. Dolman told Miss Ramsay that he had given orders about the wagonette, and he supposed Simpson knew about the sleeping arrangements, as he was given to understand that she had received a letter from Mrs. Dolman.

"I have spoken to Simpson," replied Miss Ramsay, dropping her eyes as she made the remark, "and she fully understands what is expected of her. The two girls are to have small rooms to themselves, and so is the eldest boy, but the youngest will sleep in the nursery with Philip and Conrad. Those are Mrs. Dolman's directions."

"Quite right, quite right," said Mr. Dolman. "Anything Mrs. Dolman wishes, of course. Miss Ramsay, I shall not be home to tea this evening. I have to go to visit a sick parishioner at the other end of the parish. Good-by, Lucy; good-by, the rest of you children. I hope to see you all before bedtime; if not—"

"But, father," burst from Ann, "the new children will be here about six."

"They cannot arrive before half-past six, my dear," replied Mr. Dolman.

"Ann, you have again spoken English," said Miss Ramsay; "I shall be forced to punish you. You will have to stay in after the others this afternoon, and learn ten lines of your French poetry."

Poor little Ann colored and her lips trembled. She really felt dreadfully excited, and it was terrible to have to bottle up all her thoughts during the long, hot day.

Immediately after dinner the children went up to the schoolroom, where they lay down on the floor for half an hour to learn their lessons.

At three o'clock the ordinary lessons began again, and went on without interruption until five, when there was tea. After tea the children were supposed to have the rest of the day to do what they liked in. But on this occasion, Ann was kept in the schoolroom to learn her French poetry as best she could. The ten lines were difficult, and the little girl felt sleepy, cross, and dissatisfied. Soon her small, curly head fell upon her plump arms, and sleep took possession of her little soul.

Miss Ramsay came in and found her in a state of heavy slumber.

"Ann!" she cried; "Ann!"

Little Ann raised herself with a start.

"Oh, please, Miss Ramsay, won't you excuse the French poetry to-day," she cried; "I am so—"

"So what, Ann? I am surprised at you. What can be the matter?"

"I am so excited about the little Delaneys," answered Ann. "They are coming so soon, and they are my own first cousins—I seem to see them all the day—they come between me and—and my poetry. Please, Miss Ramsay, if you'll only allow me I'll get up early to-morrow morning and learn it perfectly. Do say I need not finish it this afternoon—do, please."

Miss Ramsay was astonished and annoyed at this rebellion on the part of Ann.

"You surprise me," she said. "You know that lessons have to be done during lesson hours, and that rules are not to be broken. You know what your mother would say if she heard you talking English at meals. Twice to-day you broke through that rule. The first time I pardoned you—the second time it was unpardonable. Now, my dear, apply yourself to your task—get it well over, and you will doubtless be ready to welcome your cousins when they arrive."

Miss Ramsay left the room. Ann shed a few tears, and then, seeing there was no help for it, applied herself with all her might and main to learning her appointed task. She got her poetry by heart after a fashion, and, hastily replacing the book in the bookcase, ran out of the schoolroom. She saw Lucy and Mary pacing up and down the terrace in front of the house. They were in clean white frocks, with sashes round their waists, and their hair was very trimly brushed and curled over their heads. Their faces shone from soap and water, and even at that distance Ann could perceive that their hands were painfully, terribly clean. In her heart of hearts Ann hated clean hands; they meant so much that was unpleasant—they meant that there must be no grubbing in the garden, no searching for dear little weeds and small flowers, and all kinds of delicious, unexpected things in mother earth. In her heart of hearts Ann had a spark of originality of her own, but it had little chance of flourishing under the treatment so carefully pursued at Super-Ashton.

Philip and Conrad might also be seen on the terrace in their clean linen blouses and fresh knickerbockers; their hands were also carefully washed, their hair brushed back from their faces, the faces themselves shining from soap and water.

"Oh, dear! there's no help for it," thought little Ann, "I must go into the nursery and let Simpson pull me about. How she will scrub me and tug at my hair, and put on such a horrid starched dress, and it's so hot to-night! Well, if I hurry I may be in time to tell Philip what I know about their names. Oh, how delicious it will be! He'll be so excited. Yes, I'll be as quick as possible."

Ann ran down the long passage which led from the schoolroom to the nursery, opened the door, and approached a prim old servant with a somewhat cross face, who was busily engaged mending stockings.

"Please, Simpson, here I am. Will you dress me?" said Ann, panting as she spoke.

Simpson laid down her work with deliberation.

"Now, I wonder, Miss Ann," she said, "why I am to be put about for you. I have just finished dressing all the other children. Why didn't you come with the others? There, miss, you must just dress yourself, for I can't and won't be worried; these stockings must be finished before the mistress comes home."

"All right," answered Ann, in a cheerful tone. "I can wash myself beautifully. May I go into the night-nursery, please, Simpson, and do my best?"

"Yes, my dear. You'll find a white frock hanging in the wardrobe. I'll fasten it for you after you have washed yourself and combed out your hair. Now, do be quick. I would help you willingly, Miss Ann, only I really have not a minute to spare; Master Philip and Master Conrad are dreadful with their socks, and when the mistress comes with that fresh family, goodness knows when I shall have a moment to see to your clothes again."

Ann dressed herself, and ran back to Simpson.

"Simpson," she said, as that good woman was fastening the hooks and eyes at the back of her frock, "I know it is wrong to be so much excited, but I am. My heart beats awfully fast at the thought of their coming."

"Well, Miss Ann, it's more than my heart does. And now, miss, if you'll take a word of advice from me, you'll keep your feelin's to yourself, as far as your ma is concerned. Your ma don't wish any of you to give way to excitement. She wants you to grow up steady, well-conducted young ladies."

"I hate being a well-conducted young lady," burst from little Ann.

"Oh, dear me, miss! it's dreadful to hear you talk so unproper. Now stand still and don't fidget."

The frock was fastened, and Ann ran off to join her brothers and sisters on the terrace.

Lucy and Mary were little girls after their mother's own heart. They never questioned her wishes, they never rebelled against her rules, they were as good and well-behaved as any two little English maids of the respective ages of twelve and ten could be. Now, as little Ann approached, they looked at her as if they thought her quite beneath their notice.

"Oh, do go away, Ann!" said Lucy. "Mary and I are talking secrets, and we don't want you."

"You are always talking secrets," said Ann. "It's horrid unfair to me."

"We have got to talk things over. We can't confide in you; you're the youngest. Please don't be disagreeable now. We are having a most important talk. Please run away at once."

Ann looked beseeching, but then, all of a sudden, her eyes fell upon Philip. She turned, ran up to him, clutched him by the arm, and pulled him away from Conrad.

"Phil," she said, "I want to have you all to myself. I have something terribly exciting to say."

Philip looked from Conrad to Ann.

"But you are always getting into hot water, Ann," he replied, "and Con and I were talking about our fishes. We think if we are very careful with our pocket-money we may have enough to buy some gold and silver fish in the holidays."

"Yes, yes," answered Ann impetuously; "buy any kind of fish you like. Only, Con, like a dear, good boy, please go and walk at the other end of the terrace for five minutes. I must speak to someone or I'll burst."

"How awfully vulgar you are, Ann!" said Lucy, who happened to pass by, with Mary leaning on her arm, at that moment.

But Philip felt flattered at Ann's evident anxiety to be alone with him.

"Go and do as you are told, Conrad," he said, in lofty tones; "go to the other end of the terrace at once."

"It's rather hard on me," said Conrad. "I like having secrets as well as anybody else; the air is full of secrets to-day—why shouldn't I have some?"

"I'll have a secret with you by and by," said Ann, "if you'll only go away now."

The little boy looked at her, saw she was in earnest, and obeyed somewhat unwillingly.

"Now then, Ann," said Philip, "speak out; be as quick as ever you can."

"Philip," said Ann, in a solemn voice, "don't you want to know all about the children who are coming to-night?"

"Is that what the secret is about?" said Philip in disgust. "Do you know, Ann, what I heard Miss Ramsay say to Simpson to-day. She said that the new children would be awful bothers, and that she for one does not know if she is going to stay, and Simpson said she was sure that she would give notice too. Miss Ramsay said it was an awful shame bringing four children to the house, and Simpson threw up her hands. You know how she looks when she throws up her hands. And she said, 'Them's my sentiments, Miss Ramsay.' Do you know what she meant by 'Them's my sentiments,' Ann, 'cos I don't? I never heard such funny words before. Did you, Ann?"

"No," said Ann; "but you ought not to have listened, Phil."

"Oh, I often listen!" replied Philip calmly. "I get to know all kinds of funny things that way, and they turn out no end useful. I know lots of things about Miss Ramsay, and since I just let her know that I did, she is not half so hard on me. That's how I find listening useful."

"Well, it is not right," said Ann, "but I have no time to argue with you now, Phil; I want to talk about the children. Whatever Simpson says, and whatever Miss Ramsay says, I am delighted that they are coming. I think it will be fun. In my heart, you know, Phil, I love fun, and I want to be able to talk English sometimes, and Phil, would, would you like to know their names?"

"Their names?" said Philip. "I suppose they have names, although I never thought about them."

"Well, of course they have, and I'll tell you what they are. They have got lovely names; once I heard mother say that the whole four of them were called after heathen idols. Isn't it awful and exciting to be called after a heathen idol? Oh, Phil! they have such lovely names!"

Philip was not much interested in heathen idols, but Ann's excited face and her bright blue eyes did strike him as out of the common.

"Well, you are in a state," he said. "What creatures girls are! You'll catch it when mother comes home. You know she never can stand anybody all jumpy, and jerky, and quivery, like you are now. Well, what are the names? Out with them and get them over."

"Iris is the name of the eldest girl," said Ann. "Then comes Apollo—he is a boy."

"I'll never be able to get hold of that name," said Philip. "Apollo! how queer."

"But it is not queer, really," said Ann, delighted at having roused his real interest at last. "Of course, Apollo is very well known indeed. He was a sort of beautiful god long ago."

"But this boy is not a god—horrid little beggar," said Philip. "Well, what are the names of the others?"

"There is a girl called Diana."

"Diana," repeated Philip. "There's nothing in that name. That name is in the Bible. Miss Ramsay read the whole story aloud to us last Sunday when the beastly rain kept dropping and dropping all day long. 'Great is Diana of the Ephesians.' I rather like the sound, but there's nothing at all in a name of that sort, Ann."

"Well, I didn't say there was," answered Ann. "I only think it awfully pretty."

"I don't think much of it for an ordinary girl. Well, now, what is the other name? I'll call Conrad back, if you are not quick."

"I'll tell it to you. Look here, Phil, I bet you never heard a name like it."

"You bet?" said Philip. "Oh, if mamma only heard you!"

"For goodness' sake, don't tell her," said Ann. "I can't help letting out sometimes, and it does relieve me so. The name of the other boy is Orion, and he is called after a cluster of stars. I do know that much. And oh, Phil! Phil! Phil! they are coming! they are coming!"



CHAPTER VIII.

THE STRAW TOO MUCH.

The crunching of wheels was heard distinctly on the gravel, and the next moment the wagonette swept into view. The horses drew up with a nourish at the front door of the pretty Rectory, and the five little Dolmans rushed forward.

"Stand back, children, and allow your cousins to get comfortably out of the carriage," called out Mrs. Dolman. "No excitement, I beg, from any of you—I have had quite enough of that already. Stand quietly just where you are. Lucy, where is Miss Ramsay?"

"Up in her room, I think, mamma. Shall I call her?"

"Not at present, although she ought to have been here. Now, Iris, get out quietly—quietly, my dear. Apollo, give me your hand, you come next; now, Diana—easy, little girl, easy—you will fall, if you jump like that."

"I think nothing of a little easy hop like that, aunt," replied Diana. She sprang from the carriage, disdaining the use of the steps. When she found herself on the gravel sweep she stood very firmly on her two fat legs and looked her five cousins all over.

"You aren't none of you much to boast," she said; "I'd wather have the animals." Then she turned her back and gazed around her at the view.

Meanwhile, Orion was being helped out of the carriage. He was also very sturdy and independent, and felt half inclined to follow Diana's spirited example; but Mrs. Dolman would not permit this. She took the youngest of the little heathen gods firmly into her arms and deposited him on the gravel.

"There you are, little boy," she said, giving him a slight shake as she did so, "and I do trust you will behave yourself."

Orion ran up to Diana and took hold of her hand. Diana took no notice of him, but continued to admire the view.

Mrs. Dolman's face was quite red. She was very tired after her long journey, and she had found the little Delaneys not the easiest traveling companions in the world. It is true that Iris had been as good as possible, but between whiles she had cried a good deal, and her sad face, and somewhat reproachful expression, seemed to hurt Mrs. Dolman even more than the really obstreperous, and at times violent, behavior of her brothers and sister; for the fact is, the other three little Delaneys had not yet got the slightest idea into their heads that they were bound to obey Mrs. Dolman. Far from this; a sudden and extreme naughtiness had taken possession of their unruly little hearts. Even Iris' gentle words had no effect on them. They hated Aunt Jane; considering her, in their heart of hearts, extremely cruel and unworthy of affection. Had she not parted them at one blow from their father, their home, their lovely garden, even from poor Fortune, who was better than nobody, and, above all, from their darling, precious pets? They had none of them been broken-hearted children when their mother died, but they all, even Iris, felt broken-hearted now. But this fact did not prevent their being extremely naughty and rebellious, and when Diana felt Orion's hand clutching hers, she whispered to him in an indignant voice:

"Come 'long, 'Rion, let's have a wun—my legs is so stiff; and, Orion, I has got the box, and we can open it when we is away by our own two selves."

"What are you talking about, little children?" questioned Mary Dolman. "You mean to run away all by yourselves. But you must do nothing of the sort. This is not the hour for running about in the open air. There is supper ready for us all in the dining room, but I think mamma would like you first to go upstairs and have your faces and hands washed. If you will follow me, I'll show you where to go."

"Thank you, Mary," said Mrs. Dolman, who had overheard her daughter. "Ann, my dear, what are you staring at me for? Go and help your cousins. Now, you four children, follow Lucy and Ann to your rooms, where my servant, Simpson, will attend upon you. Go, children, at once. If there is any naughtiness, remember I shall have to punish you severely."

"What do she mean by that?" said Diana, fixing her eyes on Mary's face. "I never did like aunts. Is she your aunt?"

"No; she is my mother," said Mary, "and you must not speak in that tone of mamma."

"I'll speak in any tone I p'ease," replied Diana. "Ise not going to be fwightened. But what do she mean by punish? Who will she punish?"

"She will punish you," replied Mary. "Were you never punished?"

"Never. I don't know what it means. Is it nasty?"

"Oh, isn't it!" said Philip, who came up at that moment. "What a lark it will be to see you punished, Diana. I wonder when your first time will come? I expect rather soon. You had best obey mamma, I can tell you, and papa too; if you don't, you'll just catch it hot."

"Boo!" replied Diana, "you is a silly boy." Then she turned to Mary. "I is awfu' tired and s'eepy," she said. "I'd like to go stwaight to bed."

"You must have supper first. Did you not hear mamma say so? Now, come along with me."

Mary held out her hand, which Diana, after a momentary hesitation, condescended to take.

Meanwhile, Ann had gone up to Iris.

"Would you not like me to show you your room, cousin?" she said; "and please, I want to say how very glad I am that you have come."

A faint tinge of delicate color came into Iris' sweet little face at these words—they were the first attempt at a real welcome she had received. She held out her hand to Ann without a word, and the Delaneys and Dolmans entered the cheerful Rectory in a body. The four little strangers, accompanied by Mary and Ann, went upstairs, where Simpson was waiting for them. Simpson was feeling very cross at the arrival of four additional children, but when she saw Diana's tired face, and the tears on Iris' pale cheeks, and the defiant, and yet baby look in Orion's bright eyes, something came over her which she could not quite account for, and she suddenly became kind and agreeable.

"Come, my dears," she said; "why, you must all be dead tired, you poor little mites. Come now—come in here. And what are your names?"

"I am Iris," replied the eldest little girl in a sweet voice.

"Iris!" repeated Simpson; "and what's your name, young master?"

"Apollo," answered the little boy, flinging back his dark head and fixing his handsome eyes upon the woman.

"My word! that's a queer sort of name—outlandish, I call it!" ejaculated Simpson. "And now, missy, I expect you are called Baby?"

"No, I aren't," replied Diana. "I is the gweat Diana; I has got a bow and arrow, and I'll shoot you if you is not kind."

"Oh, lor'! Now, missy, you would not be so cruel as that?"

"Yes, I would," replied Diana. "See this box in my hand? It's an awfu' pwecious box—it has got spiders in it and two beetles. May I put the poor darlin's loose in my room?"

Now, if Simpson had a horror, it was of spiders and beetles.

"You keep that box shut, miss," she said, "for if you dare to open it in your bedroom I'll just go straight down and tell my mistress."

"And then you'll get punished, Diana," said Mary, in her most annoying voice.

"Is you a cousin?" asked Diana, by way of reply.

"Certainly I am." Mary opened her round eyes in some astonishment.

"Is you my cousin?"

"Yes; I am your first cousin."

"First cousin," repeated Diana. She flung off her hat and threw it on the floor.

"Orion," she said, turning to her little brother, "you take good care of our pwecious box. And what is you?" she continued, raising her eyes to Simpson's face.

"Well, my dear, at the present moment I am the nurse, and ready to wash you and look after you, and make you comfortable."

"Then I wishes to say something," remarked Diana. "I wishes to say it bold, and I wishes to say it soon. I hate cousins, more 'specially first, and I hate nurses. There, now, you can go downstairs, first cousin, and tell aunt, and she can punish me. I don't care. You can tell your mamma just what you p'ease."

Diana strutted across the room, deposited her box on the washhand-stand, and then, turning round once again, began to view the company. What might have happened at that moment there is no saying, if Iris had not come to the rescue.

"Please don't mind her," she said; "she is only a very little child and she has gone through great trouble, for our mother—our own mother—she has left us, you know. Diana does not really mean to be rude. Please let me talk to her. Di, darling, come to me, come to Iris."

It was impossible to resist Iris when she spoke in that tone, and when she looked at Diana with her speaking dark eyes, and that gentle, beautiful expression on her little face, it seemed to Diana then as if the hard journey, and the pain of all the partings had never taken place at all. She rushed up to her sister, clasped her fat arms round her neck, and began to sob.

"Poor little thing, she is dreadfully tired!" said Iris. "If I might have a little bread and milk to give her, and then if she might be put to bed, I know she would fall asleep immediately and be quite herself in the morning."

"Indeed, miss, I think you are right," said Simpson, who could not help gazing at Iris with admiration. "I see you are a very kind little sister, and of course no one ought to mind the words of a mere baby. I'll take it upon me, miss, to do what you suggest, even though my missus may be angry. Oh, my word! there's the supper gong. You must go down at once, Miss Iris, you really must. I cannot answer for two of you being absent, but I will speak to Mrs. Dolman afterwards, and tell her that I just put Miss Diana straight to bed, for she was much too sleepy to go downstairs again."

"But I won't let you leave me, Iris," almost screamed Diana, tightening her arms round her sister's neck.

"Please let me stay here," said Iris. "I do not really want any supper, and I know how to manage her. She has gone through a great deal."

"Well, miss, do you dare?"

"Oh, I dare anything! I am quite positive certain Aunt Jane won't mind when I tell her my own self what I have done."

"I will tell mamma; she shan't mind," said little Ann suddenly.

Iris looked up at her and smiled—Ann smiled back at her. The hearts of the two little cousins were knit together in real love from that moment.

The gong sounded again downstairs, and this time in a distinctly angry manner. The three Dolman girls and the two Delaney boys had to hurry off as fast as they could, and then Iris undressed Diana and put her into her snug little white bed.

"I is drefful unhappy, Iris," said Diana, as she laid her head on her pillow.

"But you won't be in the morning, Diana. You'll feel brave and strong and bright in the morning, just like the dear name mother gave you."

"Oh, p'ease, p'ease, will you see that the spiders and beetles has somethin' to eat? They is so far from home, poor darlin's, and they has come a drefful long journey, and they may be deaded in the morning if nothing's not done for 'em. P'ease see to 'em; won't you, Iris?"

"Yes," replied Iris.

"Very well. Now, I'll say my pwayers and go stwaight off to s'eep. P'ease, God, b'ess Di, make her good girl. Amen. Good-night, Iris."

The next moment the little girl had gone away into the world of happy slumber and innocent dreams. She knew nothing whatever about what poor Iris, to her dismay, soon discovered, namely, that Simpson had marched off with the box which contained the spiders and beetles. That box, with its contents, was never found again. It was the straw too much, as Simpson expressed it afterwards.



CHAPTER IX.

THE PUNISHMENT CHAMBER.

The next morning matters began by being a little better, and might have gone on being so but for Diana. The four little Delaneys had slept well, and were refreshed; and as the sun was shining brightly, and there was a pleasant breeze blowing, Mrs. Dolman decided that all the nine children might have a holiday in order to get acquainted with one another. It did not seem so very dreadful to Iris and Apollo to have cousins to walk about with and talk to. Philip and Conrad, too, were fairly kind to little Orion; they took him round to see their gardens and their several pets. Life was certainly prim at the Rectory compared to what it had been at the Manor; but children will be children all the world over, and when there is a bright sun in the heavens, and flowers grow at their feet, and a gentle breeze is blowing, it is almost impossible to be all sulks and tears and misery. Even Diana was interested in what was going on. She had never been away from home before, and she found it pleasant to watch the Dolman children. As she expressed it, in her sturdy fashion, she did not think much of any of them, but still it amused her to hear them speak, and to take Ann's hand and allow her to lead her round the garden.

Ann was extremely kind to her, but she only received a very qualified measure of approval from the saucy little miss. Lucy and Mary she could not bear, but as Ann showed her all her treasures, and as Ann happened also to be very fond of animals, Diana began to chatter, and presently became almost confidential. Suddenly, however, in the midst of quite a merry game of play, the little girl was heard to utter a shout.

"Where is my darlin's that I brought from home?" she cried; "my three spiders and my four beetles? I have not given none of 'em their bwekfus. I must wun and fetch 'em. Iris promised to see to 'em last night, so I know they isn't deaded; but I must go this very instant minute to feed 'em, 'cos, of course, they wants their bwekfus, poor dears. If you like I'll show 'em to you, Ann; you can see 'em while they is eating."

"Please, Diana, don't go!" called out Ann; but Diana did not hear her. Putting wings to her sturdy little feet, she sped across the lawn, ran helter-skelter into the house, and up to the room where she had slept.

The room was empty, the windows were wide open, the little bed was neatly made; there was not a sign of the precious box to be discovered anywhere.

"Where is that howid old nurse?" called Diana aloud. "She must know where my pets is. Oh, they must be desp'te hungry, poor darlin's. I say, nurse, where is 'oo? Nurse, come 'long, you howid old thing!"

Simpson, who happened to be in the day-nursery not far away, heard Diana's imperious little cry. The under-nurse was also standing in the room.

"Mrs. Simpson," she said, "I hear one of the strange little ladies calling out for you."

"Well, and so do I hear her," answered Mrs. Simpson, with a toss of her head; "but she must learn to speak respectful before I take any notice. I fully expect it's that pert little Miss Diana. They say she is called after one of the heathen gods; no wonder she is so fiery and—"

But at that moment the fierce little face, the jet-black head and sparkling eyes were seen peeping round the nursery door.

"There you is, old Simpson; that's wight," said Diana, dancing up to her. "Now, p'ease, tell me where you put my box."

"What box, miss? I'll thank you, Miss Diana, not to call me old Simpson. My name is Mrs. Simpson."

"I only call you what you is," said Diana. "You is old, your hair is gway; you is awfu' old, I 'spect. Now, where is my box? Where did you put it, old—I mean, Mrs. Simpson?"

"What box, miss?" said Simpson, beginning to temporize, for she really was afraid of the burst of wrath which Diana might give way to when she learned the truth.

"You is a stupid," said Diana. "It's the box what holds my pwecious beetles and spiders. I want to feed 'em. I'm just going to catch flies for my spiders. I know how to catch 'em quite well; and my dear little bettles, too, must be fed on bits of sugar. Where did you put the box? The woom I s'ept in is kite tidy. Where is the box? Speak, can't you?"

"Well, then, Miss Diana, I must just tell you the simple truth. We can't have no messing with horrid vermin in this house. I would not stay here for an hour if I thought those odious beetles and spiders were anywhere about."

"Well, then, you can go," said Diana; "nobody wants you to stay; you is of no cons'kence. I want my darlin' pets, my little home things that comed from the lovely garden; my spiders and my dear beetles. Where did you put 'em?"

"The fact is, Miss Diana, you want a right good talking to," said Simpson. "Well, then, this is the truth. I have put 'em away."

"Away! Where?"

"They are gone, miss; you'll never find 'em again."

"Gone!" cried Diana, her face turning pale. "Gone! Did Iris let you take 'em away?"

"Your sister knew nothing about it, miss. I took the box last night and threw it into the dust-hole. I hope the vermin inside are dead by now—horrid, odious, disgusting things!"

"Vermin!" cried Diana. Her great eyes leaped, a ray of pure fire seemed to dart from them. She looked for a moment as if she meant to strike Simpson, but then, thinking better of it, she turned and rushed like a little fury from the room. Downstairs, with her heart choking, her breath coming fast, her whole little body palpitating with the most frantic passion, she ran.

The first person she happened to meet was her uncle, Mr. Dolman. He was coming sleepily in from the garden, for the day was getting intensely hot. He meant to go to his study to begin to write his sermon for next Sunday. He did not feel at all inclined to write his sermon, but as it had to be got through somehow, he thought he would devote an hour, or perhaps an hour and a half, to its composition this morning. When he saw Diana, however, rushing madly through the hall, with her eyes shining, her face white, and her whole little body quivering with excitement, he could not help exclaiming under his breath at her remarkable beauty.

"What a handsome little spitfire!" he said aloud.

"Spitfire, indeed!" said Diana; "it's you all who is spitfires; it's not me. I want to say something to you, big man."

"Very well, small girl," answered Mr. Dolman. "I am willing to listen to you. What is the matter?"

This was really much more diverting than sitting down to his sermon.

"I want you to have that howid old woman upstairs put in pwison. I want you to get the perlice, and have her hands tied, and have her took away to pwison. She has done a murder—she has killed my—" But here little Diana's voice suddenly failed; high as her spirit was, it could not carry her any further. A sense of absolute loneliness came over her, and her passion ended in a burst of frantic weeping.

And now all might have been well, for Mr. Dolman was a kind-hearted man, and the little child, in her black dress, would have appealed to him, and he would have taken her in his arms and comforted her after a fashion, and matters might never have been so sore and hard again for little Diana, if at that moment Mrs. Dolman had not appeared. She was walking hastily across the hall with her district-visiting hat on. Mrs. Dolman's district-visiting hat was made in the shape of a very large mushroom. It was simply adorned with a band of brown ribbon, and was not either a becoming or fashionable headgear.

Diana, who had a strong sense of the ludicrous, stopped her tears where her aunt appeared.

"What a poky old thing you is!" she said.

These words enraged Mrs. Dolman.

"William," she remarked, "what are you doing with that child? Why, you have taken her in your arms; put her down this minute. Diana, you are a very naughty little girl."

"So is you a very naughty old woman," retorted Diana. "I's not going away from this nice old man. I don't like you. I'm going to stay with you, old man, so don't put me down out of your arms. You will send for the perlice, won't you, and you'll have that howid puson upstairs put in pwison. Go 'way, aunt. I never did like you, and I never will, and you is awfu' poky in that bonnet. But I'll go with you, old man." Here she flung her fat arms round her uncle's neck and gave him a hug.

"You are not pwetty like faver," she said, "you are kite an ugly old man, but all the same I like you;" and she kissed him, a slobbering, wet kiss on his cheek.

"Jane," said Mr. Dolman, "this poor little girl is in great trouble. I cannot in the least make out why, but perhaps you had better let her come with me into the library for a few minutes."

"I'll allow nothing of the kind," answered Mrs. Dolman. "Diana Delaney is an extremely naughty little child, and I am quite determined that her spirit shall be broken. It was all very well for you to go on with your tantrums at the Manor, miss, but now you are under my control, and you shall do exactly what I wish. Come, Diana, none of this. What, you'll kick me, will you? Then I shall have you whipped."

"What's whipped?" questioned Diana.

Mrs. Dolman stooped down and lifted her into her arms. She was a stout and largely-made child, and the little woman found her somewhat difficult to carry. She would not let her down, however, but conducted her across the cool hall and into a room at the further end of the passage. This room was nearly empty, matting covered the floor and a round table stood in the center, while two or three high-backed chairs, with hard seats, were placed at intervals round the walls. It was a decidedly dreary room, and rendered all the more so because the morning sun was pouring in through the dusty panes.

This room was well known to all the little Dolmans, for it was called the punishment chamber. In this room they had all of them shed bitter tears in their time, and some of the spirit which had been given to them at their birth was subdued and broken here, and here they learned to fear mamma, although not to respect her. They were all accustomed to this chamber, but little Diana Delaney had never in the whole course of her spirited six years heard of anything in the least resembling this odious and ugly apartment.

"Here you stay until you beg my pardon," said Mrs. Dolman, "and if I hear you daring to call me names again, or your uncle names, or doing anything but just behaving like a proper little Christian child, I shall have you whipped. I believe in not sparing the rod, and so the child is not spoiled. What, you'll defy me, miss!"

"I hate you," screamed Diana, "and I want you to go to pwison too, as well as that awfu' old Simpson upstairs. She has gone and murdered all my animals—she said they was vermin. Oh, I hate you, aunt!"

"Hate me or not, you'll stay where you are until dinner-time," said Mrs. Dolman, and she left the room, locking the door after her.

Diana flew to it and kicked it furiously, but although she kicked and screamed and shouted herself hoarse, no one heard her, and no one came to the rescue. At last, worn out with her frantic grief, she threw herself down in the middle of the floor and, babylike, forgot her sorrows in profound slumber.

The rest of the children were having a fairly happy morning, and Iris, who was trying to make the best of things, did not miss her little sister until the preparation gong for dinner sounded. The moment its sonorous notes were heard pealing over the Rectory garden, little Ann got up soberly, and Lucy and Mary also rose to their feet.

"That is the first gong, Iris," said Ann; "we must go in to clean our hands and have our hair brushed. Mamma would be very angry if we were not all in the dining room when the second gong sounds. There is only five minutes between the two gongs, so we had better go and get ready at once."

Iris was quite ready to accompany her cousins into the house. Now, for the first time, however, she missed Diana.

"Where is Di?" she said. "Apollo, have you seen her?"

Apollo was coming up the lawn; Iris ran down to meet him.

"Oh, there's Orion with Philip and Conrad," said Iris, "but where can Di be? I thought she was with you, Apollo."

"I have not seen her for the greater part of the morning," replied Apollo. "Have you, Orion?"

"Not I," answered Orion, giving himself a little shake. "I say, Phil," he continued, "is it true that you can take me fishing with you this afternoon?"

"Yes; but pray don't talk so loud. I'll take you, if you won't split about it."

"What's 'split'?" questioned Orion.

"Hush, you little beggar!" Philip drew Orion to one side and began to whisper in his ear. Orion's face got very red.

"Oh!" he said. "Well, I won't tell. What are you talking about, Iris?"

"I want to find Diana," said Iris.

"I have not seen her," said Orion. "I wish you would not bother me, Iris. I am talking to Philip. Phil and I has got some secrets. Very well, Phil; we'll walk on in front, if you like."

"Yes, come along," said Philip; "you can come too, Conrad. Now, Orion, if you are not going to be a silly goose and a tell-tale, I'll—" Here he dropped his voice to a whisper, and Orion bent an attentive ear.

Iris, in some bewilderment, turned to her girl cousins.

"I must find Diana," she said.

"She may be in the house," said Ann. "Perhaps she has gone to the nurseries—perhaps she is with Simpson."

The whole party entered the house, which was very cool and pleasant in contrast to the hot outside world. They met Mr. Dolman striding across the hall.

"You had better be quick, children," he called out. "Mamma won't be pleased unless you are all waiting and ready to sit down to table when the second gong sounds."

"Oh, please, Uncle William!" said Iris, "do you happen to know where Diana is?"

"Little Diana with the spirited black eyes?" questioned Mr. Dolman.

"Yes; do you know anything about her?"

He pushed his spectacles halfway up on his broad, bald forehead.

"I am afraid little Diana has been very naughty," he said; "but, pray don't say that I mentioned it. You had better question your aunt, my dear. No, there is no use asking me. I vow, once for all, that I am not going to interfere with you children—particularly with you little Delaneys. I only know that Diana has been naughty. Ask your aunt—ask your aunt, my dear."

"Iris, do pray come upstairs," called out Mary; "we'll get into the most dreadful scrape if we are late. Mamma is so terribly particular."

"Oh, there is Aunt Jane!" said Iris, with a sigh of relief. "Aunt Jane, please," she continued, running up to her aunt as she spoke, "I can't find Diana anywhere. Do you happen to know where she is?"

"I am afraid you won't find Diana, Iris," answered Mrs. Dolman, "for the simple reason that she has been a very impertinent, naughty little girl, and I have been obliged to lock her up."

"You were obliged to lock her up?" said Iris, her face turning pale. She gave Mrs. Dolman a look which reminded that lady of her brother. Now, the little Delaneys' father could give very piercing glances out of his dark eyes when he chose, and Mrs. Dolman had been known, in her early days, to quail before them. For the same inexplicable reason she quailed now before the look in Iris' brown eyes. "Please take me at once to my sister," said the little girl, with dignity.

Mrs. Dolman hesitated for a moment.

"Very well, Iris, on this occasion I will take you," she said. "But please first understand that you four children have got to bend your wills to mine; and when you are naughty,—although I don't expect you will ever be naughty, Iris,—I trust you, at least, will be an example to the others,—but when any of you are naughty you will be most certainly punished. I have brought you here with the intention of disciplining you and making you good children."

"Then," said Iris, very slowly, "do you really think, Aunt Jane, that when mother was alive we were bad children?"

"I have nothing to say on that point," answered Mrs. Dolman. She led Iris across the cool hall, and, taking a key out of her pocket, opened the door of the punishment chamber. She threw it wide open, and there, in the center of the matting, lay Diana, curled up like a little dog, very sound asleep.

"Much she cares," said Mrs. Dolman.

"Oh, Aunt Jane!" said Iris, tears springing to her eyes, "how could you be cruel to her, and she is not long without mother, you know—how could you be cruel to her, Aunt Jane?"

"You are not to dare to speak to me in that tone, Iris," said Aunt Jane.

But at that moment the noise, or perhaps it was the draught of fresh air, caused Diana to stir in her sleep. She raised her head and looked around her. The first person her eyes met was Iris.

"So you has come at last," she said. "I don't think much of you for a mother. You made a lot of pwomises, and that's all you care. Has that ugly old woman been sent to pwison? There's my darlin' pets gone and got deaded, and she deaded 'em. Has she been put in pwison for murder? Oh, there you is, too, old Aunt Jane! Well, I is not going to obey you, so there! Now you know the twuf. I is Diana, the gweat Diana. I isn't going to obey nobody!"

"Iris," said Mrs. Dolman, "will you speak to this extremely naughty little girl? If she will not repent and beg my pardon she shall have no dinner. I will send her in some bread and water; and here she shall stay until her naughty little spirit is broken."

Mrs. Dolman left the room as she spoke, and Iris found herself alone with her sister.

"You isn't much of a mother," repeated Diana. She went over to the window, and stood with her back to Iris. Her little bosom was heaving up and down; she felt very forlorn, but still she hugged her misery to her as a cloak.

Iris gazed at her in perplexity.

"Di," she said, "I never saw you like this before. What are you turning away from me for? Come to me, Di; do come to me."

Diana's little breast heaved more than ever, tears came into her eyes, but she blinked them furiously away.

"You can come to me, if you want; I shan't come to you. You isn't much of a mother," she repeated.

"But I did not know you were in trouble, darling. Do, do come to your own Iris. Do tell me what is the matter."

"Oh, Iris!" sobbed Diana.

The first kind note utterly melted her little heart; she rushed to her sister, flung herself upon her, and sobbed as if she would never stop crying.

"We can't stay in this howid place, Iris," she said; "all my darlin's has gone and got deaded. That howid old woman upstairs said they was wermin. She has killed 'em all. I can't stay here; I won't stay here. Take me back to the beautiful garden. Do, Iris; do. I'se just so mis'ble."

Iris sat down on one of the hard-backed chairs.

"Look here, Di," she said, "I have no time now to talk things over with you. Of course, everything is altered, and our lives are completely changed. When mother was dying, when I last saw her, she told me that I must expect this. She said she knew that, when she went away to the angels, we four children would have to go out into the world and fight our battles. She said that everybody in the world has got a battle to fight, and even little children have to fight theirs. She said, too, that if we were brave and the kind of children she wants us to be, we would follow the names she gave us and conquer our enemies. Now, Di, you are called after Diana, the great Diana, who was supposed to be a sort of goddess. Do you think she would have given in? Don't you think she would have been brave?"

"Yes, course," said the little nineteenth-century Diana. "She would have shotted people down dead with her bow and arrows—I know kite well she was a bwave sort of a lady. All wight, Iris, I'll copy her if you wishes."

"Indeed I do wish, darling. I think it would be splendid of you."

"She was a very bwave lady," repeated Diana. "She had her bow and her arrows; she was a gweat huntwess, and she shotted people. I don't mind copying her one little bit."

Diana dried away her tears and looked fixedly at her sister.

"Then you really mean to be good and brave, Di?"

"Certain sure, Iris."

"And you won't call Aunt Jane any more names?"

"I won't call her names—names don't si'nify, names don't kill people."

"And you'll go and beg her pardon now?"

"What's that?"

"You'll say you are sorry that you called her names."

"Would she let me out of this woom, then? and could I do just what I liked my own self?"

"I expect so; I expect she is really sorry that she had to be hard on you to-day; but you see she has got a different way of bringing up children from our own mother."

"Please, Iris, we won't talk much of our own mother—it makes me lumpy in the trof," said Diana, with a little gulp. "I'll beg her pardon, if it pleases her. I don't care—what's words? I'll go at once, and, Iris, mind me that I'm like Diana. She was a bwave lady and she shotted lots of people."

"Well, then, come along, Di; you'll be allowed to come to dinner if you beg Aunt Jane's pardon."

Di gave her hand to Iris, who took her upstairs. Here Iris washed her little sister's face and hands and brushed out her thick black hair, and kissed her on her rosebud lips, and then said:

"There is nothing I would not do, Di, to be a real little mother to you."

"All wight," answered Diana; "you just mind me now and then that I is called after the bwave lady what lived long, long ago. Is that the second gong? I'se desp'ate hungy. Let's wun downstairs, p'ease, Iris."

Diana entered the dining room with her face all aglow with smiles, the rich color back again in her cheeks, and her black eyes dancing. Even Mr. Dolman gave a gasp of relief when he saw her.

Even Mrs. Dolman felt a slight degree of satisfaction. She did not intend to be hard on the children—in her heart of hearts she was quite resolved to make them not only good, but also happy.

"Well, my dear little girl," she said, drawing Diana to her side, "and so you are sorry for what you said?"

"Awfu' sossy," answered Diana, in a cheerful voice.

"Then you beg my pardon, and you won't be naughty again?"

"I begs yous pardon, Aunt Jane," said Diana. She looked very attentively up and down her relation's figure as she spoke.

"Poor Aunt Jane, she's awfu' stout," murmured Diana, under her breath. "I must get a good sharp arrow—oh, yes! words is nothing."

Mrs. Dolman drew out a chair near herself.

"You shall sit near me, Diana, and I will help you to your dinner," she said. "I hope in future you will really try to be a very good little girl."

Diana made no reply to this, but when her aunt piled her plate with nourishing and wholesome food, she began to eat with appetite. Towards the end of the meal she bent over towards Mrs. Dolman, and said in a confiding voice:

"Has you got woods wound here?"

"Yes, my dear; there are some nice woods about a mile away."

"I'd like to go there this afternoon, please, Aunt Jane. I has 'portant business to do in those woods." Diana looked round the table very solemnly as she said these last words. Philip could not help laughing.

"Hush, Philip! I won't have Diana laughed at," said Mrs. Dolman, who for some reason was now inclined to be specially kind to the little girl. "If you would really like to spend the afternoon in the woods, Diana, I see nothing against it," she remarked. "You are all having a holiday, and as to-morrow lessons will of course be resumed, I do not see why your wish should not be gratified. Miss Ramsay, you will of course accompany the children, and, Lucy, my dear, you can have the pony chaise, if you promise to be very careful. You can take turns to sit in it, children. And what do you say to asking cook to put up a few bottles of milk and some cake and bread and butter—then you need not return home to tea?"

"That would be delightful, mamma," said Lucy, in her prim voice.

"Thank you, mamma," said Mary.

"French, my dears; French!" said Miss Ramsay.

"As it is a holiday, Miss Ramsay, the children are allowed to tender their thanks to me in the English tongue," said Mrs. Dolman.

Miss Ramsay bowed and slightly colored.

"Is you going with us?" asked Diana, fixing her dark eyes full upon the governess' face.

"Yes, Diana; your aunt wishes it."

"We don't want no g'own-ups."

"Hush, Diana! you must not begin to be rude again," said Mrs. Dolman. "Miss Ramsay certainly goes with you, please understand."

"I underland—thank you, Aunt Jane," said Diana.

She looked solemnly down at her empty plate. Her whole little mind was full of her namesake—the great Diana of long ago. She wondered if in the deep shade of the woods she might find a bow strong enough to injure her enemies.



CHAPTER X.

BOW AND ARROW.

Nothing interfered with the excursion to the pleasant woods near Super-Ashton Rectory. The children all found themselves there soon after four o'clock on this lovely summer afternoon. They could sit under the shade of the beautiful trees, or run about and play to their hearts' content.

Miss Ramsay was a very severe governess during school hours, but when there was a holiday she was as lax as she was particular on other occasions. This afternoon she took a novel out of her pocket, seated herself with her back to a great overspreading elm tree, and prepared to enjoy herself.

Lucy, Mary, and Ann surrounded Iris; Apollo marched away by himself, and Philip and Conrad mysteriously disappeared with little Orion. Diana thus found herself alone. For a time she was contented to lie stretched out flat on the grass playing soldiers, and watching the tricks of a snow-white rabbit who ran in and out of his hole close by. Presently, however, she grew tired of this solitary entertainment, and sprang to her feet, looking eagerly around her.

"Punishment is a very good thing," she said to herself. "I's punished, and I's lot better. It's now Aunt Jane's turn to be punished, and it's Simpson's turn to be punished—it'll do them heaps of good. First time I's only going to punish 'em, I isn't going to kill 'em down dead, but I's going to pwick 'em. I is Diana, and mother said I was to live just like the gweat Diana what lived long, long, long ago."

Diana began to trot eagerly up and down under the shade of the tall forest trees. She looked about her to right and left, and presently was fortunate enough to secure a pliant bough of a tree which was lying on the ground. Having discovered this treasure, she sat down contentedly and began to pull off the leaves and to strip the bark. When she had got the long, supple bough quite bare, she whipped some string out of her pocket, and converted it into the semblance of a bow. It was certainly by no means a perfect bow, but it was a bow after a fashion.

The bow being made, the arrow must now be secured. Diana could not possibly manage an arrow without a knife, and she was not allowed to keep a knife of her own. Both bow and arrow must be a secret, for if anyone saw her with them it might enter into the head of that person not to consider it quite proper for her to punish Aunt Jane.

"And Aunt Jane must be punished," muttered Diana. "I must make an arrow, and I must pwick her with it. My bow is weally beautiful—it is a little crooked, but what do that matter? I could shoot my arrow now and pwick the twees, if only I could get one made. Oh, here's a darlin' little stick—it would make a lovely arrow, if I had a knife to sharpen the point with. Now, I do wonder what sort of a woman that Miss Wamsay is."

Diana fixed her coal-black eyes on the lady.

"She looks sort of gentle now she's weading," whispered the little girl to herself. "She looked howid this morning in the schoolroom, but she looks sort of gentle now. I even seed her smile a minute back, and I should not be a bit s'prised if she didn't hate Aunt Jane too. I know what I'll do; I'll just go and ask her—there is nothing in all the world like being plain-spoke. If Miss Wamsay hates Aunt Jane, why, course, she'll help me to sharpen my arrow, when I tell her it is to give Aunt Jane a little pwick."

Accordingly Diana approached Miss Ramsay's side, and, as the governess did not look up, she flung herself on the grass near by, uttering a deep sigh as she did so. But Miss Ramsay was intent on her book, and did not take the least notice of Diana's deep-drawn breath. The little girl fidgeted, and tried further measures. She came close up to the governess, and, stretching out one of her fat hands, laid it on one of Miss Ramsay's.

"Don't touch me, my dear," said the lady. "You are much too hot, and your hand is very dirty."

"I's sossy for that," said Diana. "I had to touch you 'cos you wouldn't look up. I has something most 'portant to talk over."

"Have you indeed?" replied Miss Ramsay. She closed her book. The part she was reading was not specially interesting, and she could not help being amused with such a very curious specimen of the genus child as Diana Delaney.

"Well, little girl, and what is it?" she asked.

"I 'spects," said Diana, looking very solemnly into her face, "that you and me, we has both got the same enemies."

"The same enemies! My dear child, what do you mean?" asked Miss Ramsay.

"I 'spects I's wight," said Diana, tossing her black head. "I's not often wrong. I wead your thoughts—I think that you has a desp'ate hate, down deep in your heart, to Aunt Jane."

"Good gracious!" cried the governess, "what does the child mean? Why should I hate Mrs. Dolman?"

"But why should not you?—that's the point," said Diana.

"Well, I don't," said Miss Ramsay.

Diana looked intently at her. Slowly, but surely, her big black eyes filled with tears; the tears rolled down her cheeks; she did not attempt to wipe them away.

"What is the matter with you, you queer little creature?" said Miss Ramsay. "What in the world are you crying about?"

"I is so bitter dis'pointed," repeated Diana.

"What, because I don't hate your Aunt Jane?"

"I is bitter dis-pointed," repeated Diana. "I thought, course, you hated her, 'cos I saw her look at you so smart like, and order you to be k'ick this morning, and I thought, 'Miss Wamsay don't like that, and course Miss Wamsay hates her, and if Miss Wamsay hates her, well, she'll help me, 'cos I hates her awful.'"

"But do you know that all this is very wrong?" said Miss Ramsay.

"W'ong don't matter," answered Diana, sweeping her hand in a certain direction, as if she were pushing wrong quite out of sight. "I hate her, and I want to punish her. You ought to hate her, 'cos she told you to be k'ick, and she looked at you with a kind of a fwown. Won't you twy and begin? Do, p'ease."

"I really never heard anything like this before in the whole course of my life," said Miss Ramsay. "Mrs. Dolman did warn me to be prepared for much, but I never heard a Christian child speak in the way you are doing."

"I isn't a Chwistian child," said Diana. "I is a heathen. Did you never hear of Diana what lived long, long ago?—the beautiful, bwave lady that shotted peoples whenever she p'eased with her bow and arrows?"

"Do you mean the heathen goddess?" said Miss Ramsay.

"I don't know what you call her, but I is named after her, and I mean to be like her. My beautiful mother said I was to be like her, and I'm going to twy. See, now, here is the bow"—she held up the crooked bow as she spoke—"and I only want the arrow. Will you help me to make the arrow? I thought—oh, I did think—that if you hated Aunt Jane you would help me to make the arrow. Here's the stick, and if you have a knife in your pocket you can just sharpen it, and it will make the most perfect arrow in all the world. I'll love you then. I'll help you always. I'll do my lessons if you ask me, and I'll twy to be good to you; 'cos you and me we'll both have our enemies, and p'w'aps, if I'm not stwong enough to use the bow, p'w'aps you could use it, and we might go about together and sting our enemies, and be weal fwiends. Will you twy? Will you make me the little arrow, p'ease, p'ease?"

"And what are you going to do with the arrow when it is made?" asked Miss Ramsay. "I happen," she continued, without waiting for Diana's reply, "to have a knife in my pocket, and I don't mind sharpening that piece of wood for you. But bows and arrows are dangerous weapons for little girls like you."

"Course they is dangerous," said Diana. "What would be the use of 'em, if they wasn't? They is to pwick our enemies and p'w'aps kill 'em."

"But look here, Diana, what do you want this special bow and arrow for?"

"I want to have Aunt Jane Dolman and Simpson shotted. I'll tell you why I want 'em both to be shotted—'cos Simpson killed my spiders and beetles, and Aunt Jane Dolman is a poky old thing and she shut me up in a punishment woom. Now wouldn't you like to help me—and then we'll both have deaded our enemies, and we'll be as happy as the day is long."

Miss Ramsay was so astounded at Diana's remarks that she slowly rose from her seat and stared for nearly half a minute at the little girl.

"Well," she said at last, "I have seen in my lifetime all sorts of children. I have taught little girls and boys since I was eighteen years of age. I have seen good children and naughty children, and clever children, and stupid children, but I have never met anyone like you, little Diana Delaney. Do you really know what you are saying? Do you know that you are a very, very wicked little girl?"

"Are I?" said Diana. "Well, then, I like being a wicked little girl. I thought p'w'aps you would help me; but it don't matter, not one bit."

Before Miss Ramsay could say another word Diana had turned abruptly and flown, as if on the wings of the wind, right down through the wood.

The governess watched the little figure disappearing between the oaks and elms until at last it quite vanished from view. She felt a momentary inclination to go after the child, but her book was interesting, and her seat under the overhanging elm extremely comfortable. And this was a holiday, and she worked hard enough, poor thing, on working days. And, after all, Diana was nothing but a silly little child, and didn't mean half she said.

"It would be folly to take the least notice of her remarks," thought the governess. "I'll just go on treating her like the others. I expect I shall have a good deal of work breaking in that interesting little quartette, for, after all, if my salary is to be raised, I may as well stay at the Rectory as anywhere else. The house is comfortable, and I have got used to Mrs. Dolman's queer ways by this time."

Accordingly Miss Ramsay reseated herself, and again took up her novel. She turned the leaves, and soon got into a most interesting part of the volume. Lost in the sorrows of her hero and heroine, she forgot all about Diana Delaney and her bow and arrow.

Meanwhile, Diana, walking rapidly away by herself, was reflecting hard.

"Miss Wamsay's a poor sort," she thought. "I aren't going to twouble 'bout anyone like her, but I must get that arrow made. The bow is beautiful, but I can't do nothing 'cos I hasn't got an arrow."

At this moment, to her great delight, she saw Apollo coming to meet her.

"There you is!" she shouted.

"What do you want with me?" asked Apollo.

"Look at my bow, 'Pollo! Aren't it beautiful? Aren't I just like the weal Diana now?"

"Did you make this bow all by yourself?" asked Apollo.

"Yes; why shouldn't I?"

"Well, it's awfully crooked."

"Is it?" said Diana; "I thought it was beautiful. Can you stwaighten it for me a little bit, 'Pollo?"

"I think I can make you a better bow than this," answered Apollo.

"Oh, can you? What a darlin' you is! And will you cut an arrow for me, and will you make it very sharp? Will you make it awfu' sharp? The kind that would pwick deep, you know, that would cut into things and be like the arrow that the gweat Diana used."

Apollo was finding his afternoon somewhat dull. He had made no friends as yet with the little Dolman children. Orion had disappeared with both the boys; Iris was with Ann, Lucy, and Mary; he had been thrown for the last hour completely on his own resources. The sight, therefore, of Diana, with her flushed face and bright eyes and spirited manner, quite cheered the little fellow. He and Diana had often been chums, and he thought it would be rather nice to be chummy with his little sister to-day.

"I may as well help you," he said, "but, of course, Di, you can't expect me to do this sort of thing often. I shall most likely be very soon going to school, and then I'll be with fellows, you know."

"What's fellows?" asked Diana.

"Oh, boys! Of course, when I get with boys, you can't expect me to be much with you."

"All wight," answered Diana. "I hope you won't get with no fellows this afternoon, 'cos you is useful to me. Just sit down where you is, and help me to make a bow and arrow."

Apollo instantly seated himself on the grass, and Diana threw herself on her face and hands by his side. She raised herself on her elbows and fixed her bright black eyes on her brother's face. She stared very hard at him, and he stared back at her.

"Well," she said, "isn't you going to begin?"

"Yes," he replied; "but what do you want the bow and arrow for?"

"To get my enemies shotted."

"Your enemies? What folly this is, Di. You have not got any enemies."

"Haven't I? I know better. I won't talk to you about it, 'Pollo."

"All right," replied Apollo; "you must tell me, or I won't help you."

"There, now!" said Diana, "you's got a howid fwown between your bwows. I don't like it; you's going to be obs'nate. I don't like obs'nate boys."

"I mean what I say," replied Apollo. "I know you of old, you monkey. You are up to mischief, and I insist upon hearing all about it."

Diana gazed at him solemnly.

"Does you like Aunt Jane?" she said, after a pause.

"I can't say that I do," replied Apollo.

"Does you like that old thing in the nursery—Simpson, they calls her?"

"I can't say that I do," replied the boy again.

"They is sort of enemies of yours, isn't they?" asked Diana.

"Oh! I don't know that I go as far as that," replied Apollo.

"But if Aunt Jane makes you do howid lessons all day, and if Simpson is always fussing you and getting you to wash your face and hands, and if you can't never go with fellows, and if you is kept in—and if—and if—"

"Oh! don't begin all that, Di," said Apollo. "Where is the use of making the worst of things?"

"Well, I want to make the best of things," said Diana. "I want to have our enemies shotted wight off."

"Do you mean to tell me," said Apollo, laughing, "that you wish to shoot Aunt Jane and that old woman in the nursery?"

"I wish to pwick 'em first time, and then, if they is naughty again, to have 'em shotted down dead. Why not? Mother, who is up in the heavens, called me after gweat Diana, and Diana always shotted her enemies."