"Hi, Bessie! are you within?"

A woman with a smiling face came to the door.

"Now, what in the world is the matter with you, Jonathan?" she answered.

"Only this, wife. I met the queerest little pair in all the world on the road. Can't you take them in and give them rest for a bit? I believe the little miss is hurt awful."

"I's c'acked inside my head, but it don't matter," said Diana.

The woman stared from the children to the man; then something in Diana's face went straight to her heart.

"Why, you poor little mite," she said, "come along this minute. Why, Jonathan, don't you know her? Course it's the little missy that we both saw in the circus last night. Didn't I see her when she fell from the ring? Oh, poor little dear! poor little love!"



CHAPTER XXIII.

FORTUNE.

Uncle William took the children straight up to London. They spent the night at a great big hotel, and in the morning he went alone to have a long consultation with one of the best detectives in New Scotland Yard. When he returned after this interview, Iris came to meet him with a wise look on her face.

"I know what to do," she exclaimed.

"Well, then, my dear, it's more than I do," replied Uncle William.

"It's the only thing," repeated Iris. "Let's go straight home."

"Home? Do you mean to the Rectory? Why, we have just come from there."

"I don't mean the Rectory. I mean our real home," answered Iris. "Let's get back at once to Delaney Manor."

"I don't see much use in that," answered Uncle William.

"It's all a feel I have inside of me," replied Iris. "Often and often I get that feel, and whenever I obey it things come right. I have a feel now that I shall be nearer to Diana and to Orion in the old garden than anywhere else. I always try to obey my feel. Perhaps it's silly, but I can't help it. Do you ever get that sort of feel inside of you, Uncle William?"

"If I did," replied Uncle William, "your Aunt Jane would say that I was the silliest old man she had ever come across."

"But you aren't, you know. You are a right good sort," answered Apollo, in a patronizing tone.

"I am glad you think so, my boy," replied Uncle William. "Well, now," he added, "I always did hate London, and in the middle of summer it seems to me that it is wanting in air. I once heard a countryman say that he believed people only breathed turn about in London, and it really seems something like that this morning. The place is so close and so used-up that there is not a breath anywhere; so, Iris, if you have got that feel, and if you will promise not to tell your Aunt Jane that that is your reason for returning to the Manor, why, we may just as well do so—only, I suppose, the place is all shut up."

"Fortune, at any rate, is there," replied Iris; "and if anybody can help us to find Diana and Orion, it's Fortune; for she had them, you know, Uncle William, from the moment the angel brought them down from heaven. She had to do for them and nurse them, and tend them from that moment until Aunt Jane took them away. Oh, yes!" continued Iris; "if there is a person who will help us to find them, it's Fortune."

"She partakes of the strange names which seem to run in your family," answered Uncle William. "But there, it is as good an idea as any other, and we shall at least each of us have our proper number of breaths at Delaney Manor. That certainly is in favor of the scheme."

Accordingly, that very afternoon, Uncle William, Iris, and Apollo took the train into Devonshire. They arrived at the Manor in the evening. Nobody expected them, and the place looked, to Uncle William, at least, very dull and desolate. But when Iris saw the quaint old gateway, and when Apollo felt his feet once again upon the well-known avenue, the sadness of heart which had oppressed both children seemed to lift itself as if it had wings and fly right away.

"Let's go to the garden this very instant," exclaimed Iris, looking at her brother.

They clasped each other's hands and, flying along the well-remembered haunts, soon reached their favorite garden.

"Oh, Apollo! I live; I breathe again," said Iris, panting as she spoke. "Oh, I am happy once more!"

"Let us see if anything has been injured while we were away," said Apollo. "Oh, I wonder if anybody has watered our pretty gardens. I planted a lot of mignonette the day before I went away. I wonder if it has come up."

The children wandered about the garden. The dead-house was now empty; the four little gardens looked sadly the worse for want of watering and general looking after. The cemetery, however, looked much as usual; so also did the greenswards of grass, the roses, the different summer flowers; and finally Iris and Apollo visited the little summer-house, and seated themselves on their own chairs.

"The garden has not run away," said Apollo. "That's a comfort. I'm real glad of that."

"It's exactly like the garden of Eden," said Iris, panting as she spoke. "I don't think anybody," she continued, "could be naughty in this garden."

Apollo kicked his legs in a somewhat impatient manner.

"I feel dreadfully hungry, Iris," he said. "Suppose we go to the house now and have some supper."

"Who is that coming down the walk?" said Iris.

It was dusk by this time, and in the little summer-house all was dark; but Iris, as she spoke, sprang to her feet, and the next moment found herself clasped in Fortune's motherly arms.

"My darling!" said the woman. "Why, it drives me near mad to see you again. And now, what in the world is up with the two of you, and where are the others? There's an elderly gentleman—a clergyman—in the house, and he said I was to look for you here, and that you were going to spend the night. What does it mean, Iris? Oh, my dear! I can't see your face, for it is too dark; but you are very light. Why, you are no weight at all, my honey."

"I expect I'm rather worn out," replied Iris, in her old-fashioned tone. "You know, Fortune, when mother went away she told me to be a mother to the others, and—oh, Fortune, Fortune! I have failed, I have failed."

Iris' little arms were clasped tightly round her old nurse's neck; her face was hidden against her bosom; her heavy sobs came thick and fast.

"Why, my poor dear, you are exactly like a feather," said Fortune; "it aint to be expected that a young thing like you could be a mother. But what's gone wrong, dearie? what's gone wrong?"

"They are lost. That's what has gone wrong," said Iris. "Orion and Diana are lost, Fortune."

"Sakes alive, child! stand up and speak proper," said Fortune. "Your little brother and sister lost! Impossible; you are joking me, Iris, and that aint fair, seeing I was with you since you drew the breath of life."

"Do you think I could joke upon such a subject?" said Iris. "You say I am like a feather—that is because I have all wasted away from—from fretting, from—from misery. Yes, Fortune, they are lost, and I wish I were dead. I feel it here so dreadfully." The child pressed both her hands against her heart. "I have not been a mother," she continued. "Oh, Fortune! what is to be done?"

"You jest sit down on my lap and stop talking nonsense," said Fortune. "Why, you are trembling like an aspen. You jest rest yourself a bit alongside o' me. Now then, Master Apollo, tell me the whole truth, from beginning to end. The two children lost? Now, I don't believe it, and that's a fact."

"You'll have to believe it, Fortune," said Apollo, "for it's true. They went out one day about a month ago—we think they must have gone to some woods not far from that horrid Rectory, but nobody seems to know for certain—and they just never came back. We missed them at tea-time, and we began to look for 'em, and we went on looking from that minute until now, and we have never found either of 'em. That's about all. They are both quite lost. What I think," continued the little boy, speaking in a wise tone, "is that Diana must have met the great Diana of long ago, and gone right away with her, and perhaps Orion has been turned into one of the stars that he's called after. I don't really know what else to think," continued Apollo.

"Fudge!" said Fortune. "Don't you waste your time talking any more such arrant nonsense. Now, the two of you are as cold and shivery as can be, and I doubt not, as hungry also. Come straight away to the house. This thing has got to be inquired into."

"Oh, Fortune! can you do anything?" asked Iris.

"Can I do anything?" said Fortune. "I have got to find those blessed children, or my name's not Fortune Squeers. Did your mother bring me all the way from America to be of no use in an emergency like the present? You needn't fret any more, Iris; nor you either, Apollo. Just come right along to the house and have your cozy, warm supper, the two of you, and then let me undress you and put you into your old little beds, and I'll sleep in the room alongside of you, and in the morning we'll see about getting back those two children. Lost, is it? Not a bit of it. They are mislaid, if you like, but lost they aint—not while Fortune is above ground."

Fortune's strong words were of the greatest possible comfort to Iris. It is true that Aunt Jane had told her somewhat the same, day by day—Aunt Jane was also sure that the children were certain to be found—but, as far as Iris could gather, she only spoke, and never did anything to aid their recovery; for Iris had no faith in detectives, nor secret police, nor any of the known dignitaries of the law. But she put the greatest possible faith in the strong, cheery words of her old nurse, and she returned to the house clasping Fortune's hand, and feeling as if the worst of her troubles were at an end.

The greater part of Delaney Manor was shut up, and Fortune and two other old servants were left in charge; but very soon a comfortable meal was spread for the travelers, a room was provided for Uncle William, and Iris and Apollo slept once more in the dear old nursery.

How very sound Iris did sleep that night! How happy she felt once more!

Fortune had dragged in her bed, and laid it on the floor close to the little girl's side, and the sound of Fortune's snores was the sweetest music Iris had listened to for a long time.

"Fortune will find the others, and I can be a real mother once more," she whispered over and over to herself.

And so she slept sweetly and dreamed happily, and awoke in the morning with color in her cheeks and hope in her eyes.



CHAPTER XXIV.

ON THE TRAIL.

It was on the very evening that Orion and Diana had left the great circus that Uncle William and the two children arrived at Delaney Manor, for Delaney Manor was only five miles distant from the prosperous seaside town of Madersley.

Now, Uncle Ben had very little idea, when he brought the two children to the southwest of England, that he was really taking them back to their native country. These things, however, are ordered, and the wisest man in the world cannot go against the leadings of Providence. Uncle Ben thought to hide the children from their best friends, whereas, in reality, he was taking them home once more.

But two little circus children might wander about at their own sweet will at Madersley, and be heard nothing whatever of at Delaney Manor, and these little children might never have been found, and this story might have had a totally different ending, but for Fortune.

When Fortune, however, lay down on her mattress by Iris' side, she thought a great deal before she went to sleep. She thought, as she expressed it to herself, all round the subject, to the right of it, and to the left of it. She thought of it in its breadth, and she thought of it in its height, and, having finally settled the matter to her own satisfaction, she went to sleep, and soothed little Iris with the comforting music of her snores.

On the following morning she had an interview with Mr. Dolman.

"I want to ask you a straight question, sir," she said. "What is it the police are doing? It seems a mighty strange thing to me that two little children should be lost in the middle of a civilized country like England."

"It seems a stranger thing to me," replied Uncle William. "I am dreadfully puzzled over the whole matter. We have now four detectives at work, but up to the present they have not got the slightest clew to the children's whereabouts."

"As like as not," said Fortune, "these two have been stolen by gypsies."

"We thought of that at once," said Uncle William.

"Yes," interrupted Fortune, "and then, when you couldn't make the thing fit, or find your clew, you dropped it. Now let me tell you, sir, that aint our way in America. When we get the faintest ghost of a clew we cling on to it as if it were grim death, and we don't let it go, not for nobody. It's my belief that gypsies are at the bottom of the matter, and why have not you and your detectives looked in every gypsy encampment in the length and breadth of England?"

"There were some gypsies in our neighborhood, only we did not know it the first day," continued Mr. Dolman, "and their camp was of course thoroughly examined, but no little people in the least resembling the children were found there."

"Then of course it goes without saying," continued Fortune, "that the gypsies passed on the little dears to other folk. Now the question is, What sort of folk would be interested in a little pair like them? They was both young, both lissom, both handsome, and Miss Diana was the bravest child I ever come across—maybe they was sold to someone to train 'em to walk on the tight rope."

Uncle William smiled indulgently.

"The detectives would certainly have found that out by this time," he said. "Besides, there were no traveling companies of any sort within a radius of quite fifteen miles."

"Very well," said Fortune; "then, perhaps, sir, you'll allow me to manage things my own way. I aint a detective, but I'm bent on detective work for the time being. I'm going straight off to Madersley this morning. I'm going to have descriptions of those children printed in very big characters, and posted all over Madersley."

"And why specially all over Madersley?" asked Mr. Dolman.

"'Cos Madersley is, so to speak, their native town," answered Fortune. "Why, there aint a person in Madersley who don't know Delaney Manor; and strangers, when they come there, drive out to see Delaney Manor as they would any other big place, and folks at this time of year travel from far to stay at Madersley, because the place is bracing and the coast good for bathing. So you see, Mr. Dolman, there'll be lots of people who will read my descriptions, and when they read 'em they'll begin to talk about the children, and there's no saying what may happen."

"It doesn't sound a bad idea," said Mr. Dolman.

"Bad!" repeated Fortune. "It's a first-rate idea; it's an American idea. In America we never let the grass grow under our feet. I'm off to Madersley this minute to see after those posters. Why, we post up everything in America, every single thing that is lost, let alone children, and we do it in big type, as big as they make it, and we put the posters on the walls, and wherever there's a scrap of available space. By your leave, sir, I'm off to Madersley now."

Fortune was as good as her word. She not only went to Madersley and interviewed some of the best printers in the place, but she also visited the police station, and told the police to be on the lookout.

"For the two youngest little Delaneys are missing," she said, "and found they must be, if heaven and earth are moved to accomplish the job."

The superintendent of police remembered that he had already had notice of two children being missing somewhere in the North of England, but as he thought it extremely unlikely that such children would come to the southwest, he had not troubled himself much about them. Fortune's words, however, stimulated his zeal, and he promised to keep a sharp lookout. The printer also was full of enthusiasm, and agreed to print posters which should even satisfy Fortune. He certainly did his best; and a day or two later flaming posters, in red and black ink, were pasted up all over the little town. In these, Fortune had given a most accurate description of little black-eyed Diana and Orion. Their ages were mentioned, their sizes, the color also of their eyes and hair.

The immediate effect of these posters was to frighten Uncle Ben Holt considerably. He had been in a dreadful rage when first he discovered that Diana and Orion had taken him at his word and had decamped. He had been very cruel to every member of the troupe, and in especial to his poor wife. He vowed, and vowed, loudly, that he would not leave a stone unturned to find the children, and he also informed his wife that he would start off the following morning to acquaint the police with the fact that two of his troupe were missing.

"Why," he said, "there's a fortune in that little gal; I must have the little gal. I don't think nothing at all of the boy. She was quite the most sperited little 'un I ever come across. Fact is, I would not lose her for a fifty-pund note."

For two days Uncle Ben stormed, and the performances at the circus went languidly; but when, on the third morning, he saw the posters about the town, and when one happened to be pasted up exactly opposite his own circus, he began to cool down and to change his mind.

"Where are you, Sarah?" he called out.

His wife flew to answer the fierce summons of her lord and master.

"I'm here, Ben," she answered.

"'I'm here, Ben,'" he retorted, mimicking her tone. "There you are, Sarah, without the sperit of a mouse. Have you seen, or have you not, what's up all over the town?"

"Yes, to be sure," replied Sarah Holt; "and it's a faithful description of the children. Why, they are as like what that description says of 'em as two peas, Ben."

"I'm not saying they aint," snapped Ben, in a very indignant voice; "but what I do want to know is this—what's to be done if they are found and we are discovered to have bought 'em? We had all our plans arranged, and we have taken this field for a fortnight; but, bad as the loss will be to ourselves, it'll be better than the perlice discovering that we had anything to do with them children. The fact is this, Sarah: I'm going to pack our traps and be off out of this, to-night at the latest."

"Perhaps you are right, Ben," said the woman, in a very sad tone; "only," she added, with a sigh, "if we are really going, may not I run up to Delaney Manor and just give 'em a hint? It seems so dreadful to me if anything should happen to them little kids, more particular to little Diana, who was the mortal image of my Rachel who died."

"If you do anything of the kind I'll kill you," roared the man. "Do you want to see me locked up in prison for kidnaping children? No; we must be out of this to-night, and I must lose the ten pund I paid for the use of the field."

By this time the news of the posters had spread not only through the whole town, but amongst the members of Ben Holt's troupe. The men and women in the troupe were all interested and excited, and whenever they had a spare moment they used to run out to read the poster which Fortune had been clever enough to dictate.

Meanwhile, that good woman herself was by no means idle.

"I have done something," she said to Iris, "and what I have done at Madersley ought to have been done before now all over the length and breadth of England. But now, Miss Iris, having put the posters up, it doesn't mean that we are to be idle. We have got to do more. I have my eye on that circus. They says it's a very pretty circus indeed, and there are a lot of entertaining spectacles to be viewed there. Now, what do you say to you and me and Mr. Dolman, if he likes to come, and Master Apollo going this afternoon to see the performance?"

"I don't think I much care," answered Iris. "I don't seem to take any interest in anything just now."

"Well, all the same, dear, I would like you to go. The best of us can but take steps, and when we has taken the steps that Providence seems to indicate, there's no use a-fretting ourselves into our graves. Folks are coming to Madersley now from the length and breadth of England, being such a pretty and such a favorite seaside resort. Let's go to the circus this afternoon, Miss Iris, and see what is to be seen."

Iris could not follow Fortune's reasonings, but she submitted to her desire to pay a visit to the traveling circus, and, accordingly, that afternoon, the very last of Holt's stay at Madersley, two other little Delaneys entered the large tent and took their places in the front row. The children were accompanied both by Uncle William and Fortune. The curtain rose almost immediately after their entrance, and the performance began.

For some reason or other it was sadly lacking in spirit, and a neighbor who sat not far from Fortune began to remark on the fact.

"I wouldn't have paid three shillings for my seat if I had known the thing was so poor," she said. "Why, my husband was here last week and said it was downright splendid. But I suppose that was owing to the performances of the children."

"The children?" inquired Fortune. "I see no children about."

"Oh, well, there were two the other night—a little girl and boy; and they said the girl rode splendidly, and was the life of the whole thing. She was simply wonderful; she——"

But here the curtain rose and the performance began anew. Fortune longed to question her loquacious neighbor, but when she turned presently to speak to her she found that she had left the tent.

"Ho, ho!" thought the American woman to herself; "they had a boy and a girl here, had they, and they aren't here no longer. Now I wonder if I can strike that trail? Being from America it would be hard if I didn't, and also if I didn't succeed."



CHAPTER XXV.

FOUND!

When the performance came to an end Fortune suggested to Uncle William that he should go to the best hotel in the place, and give Iris and Apollo some tea. Iris was loath to leave Fortune's side, but Fortune bent down and whispered to her to obey.

"I am on the trail," she said, "and I don't want to be interrupted. I don't mind telling you, Iris, that the tea is all an excuse. You get your uncle to take you to the hotel, and keep him there until I join him. Now, go off this minute, like a good girl."

Iris looked into Fortune's small, but honest, eyes, and felt once again that her feel was leading her in the right direction.

"Uncle William, I should like some tea very much," she said.

"Well, then, my dear, if you want tea you shall have it," replied Uncle William.

He hailed a fly, and took the children immediately to the best hotel in the town.

When Fortune found herself alone she turned round, and gazed to right and left of her. The great tent was almost empty, for the spectators had all departed; a few, however, were standing in little groups talking to one another. Fortune edged near one of these. It consisted of a good-looking young man and two pretty girls. They were standing opposite the poster which gave such a lifelike account of little Diana and Orion.

"I see you are reading that poster," said Fortune, "and maybe you're interested?"

"Why, of course we are," said one of the girls, turning and looking at Fortune.

"Now, I wonder," continued Fortune Squeers, "if it lies anywhere in your power to give me a bit of help? Fact is, I'm interested in the children described in that poster, and as I was sitting inside the circus, I heard a neighbor say that the children belonging to your show were not present. Being an American, I never lose any clews, and there may be just the ghost of a chance that the children who were not at the performance to-day are the very identical same children that are written about in that there poster. Maybe you has heard of those children—that is, if you are Madersley folk?"

"Yes, yes; we are Madersley folk," said the young man, now turning and speaking eagerly to Fortune.

"Well, sir, do you know anything about the children who were not in the circus to-day?"

"I have heard of them, of course," said the man. "Don't you remember, Amelia," he added, "when I came home last Saturday night how I told you we must go and see Holt's circus, for he had got a little girl who was riding wonderfully? I could not manage it on Saturday, and to-day, it seems, she's off."

"And he had a boy as well, hadn't he?" said Fortune.

"Yes, there was talk of a boy; but he didn't seem to have the spirit of his sister. Anyhow, they are neither of them playing to-day, and, for my part, I thought the performance lame."

"Well, that's my opinion," said Fortune. "No American would go the length of the road to see anything so poor and common. And so the children are off—but the children were on. Now, I wish to goodness I could see those children."

"I don't suppose they have anything to do with the lost children who are spoken of in these posters," said the man. "They say they were brown as gypsies, that the boy was timid, and the girl rode wonderfully. She must have been trained for some time to ride as well as she did."

Not being able to get anything more out of these folks, Fortune turned on her heel and wandered in another direction. She crossed the entrance to the great tent, and made for the exit at the opposite side of the field. In doing this she ran right up against a fair-haired, rather pretty circus girl.

"My dear," said Fortune, "you'll excuse my stopping to speak to you, but will you tell me if I can get into the town by the gate yonder?"

"It's rather a roundabout way," answered the girl, "but you can go, of course. You will have to walk quite a way down a country lane, then turn to your left, and it will bring you to the other side of the town."

"Fact is," continued Fortune, "I'm anxious to see some more of those posters. I'm mighty took with them. They seem to describe a most elegant little pair of children."

The girl uttered a sigh and changed color.

"Maybe, miss," said Fortune, fixing her with her keen eyes, "you can tell me something about 'em? Now, if you could, and would, it would be worth your while."

"Oh, I know nothing at all," said the girl, in alarm. "What should I know?"

"How is it," continued Fortune, "that the little children belonging to your circus were not present this afternoon? It seems a sort of cheating of the public."

"The little children belonging to our circus?" repeated the girl. "But we hasn't no children." She turned very white now, and suddenly leaving Fortune, ran as fast as ever she could in the direction of the tent.

Fortune followed her with her eyes. She saw a dark man peeping out.

"That girl is frightened; she's hiding something," thought the woman. "There's no doubt the trail strengthens, and I, being an American—well, well, 'taint likely I'm going to leave off now. Yes, hot grows the trail."

Fortune pursued her way. She had just reached the gate of the opposite exit of the field when a light hand was laid on her arm. Turning quickly, she saw the same girl.

"For the love of God, madam," she said, "don't you tell on me—it's as much as my place is worth—he would kill me, if he knew—but we had two little kids here, and that poster in front of the circus gives their very description to a hair. But they have run away—they ran away some days ago, and God in heaven only knows where they are now."

"What were their names?" asked Fortune.

"Diana was the name of the girl——"

"Diana!" cried Fortune. "You need not tell me any more; and so it was you who stole 'em?"

"I!" said the girl; "I had nothing to do with it. I was kind to 'em when I could, and nothing would ever frighten Diana. But oh, please, promise you won't tell on me—you won't let out that I said anything?"

"No, my dear; I won't injure you," said Fortune; "but I must know this: When was it they ran away?"

"Three nights ago, madam; and Ben Holt, he's fairly wild at losing the girl. He doesn't think anything at all about the boy, but the little girl—why, she won us all, she was so plucky and fearless. But they ran away three nights back, and no one knows where they are."

"Don't keep me," said Fortune. "I'm much obliged to you; but don't keep me now."

She left the field where the tent was, and began to walk rapidly down the lane.

"Now, am I an American or am I not?" she thought. "Do I, or do I not, want the police to interfere in this matter? Do I, or do I not, want to find those children my very own self? They were here three nights ago, and they have run away. What can be the meaning of it?"

Fortune pressed her hand to her forehead.

"Well, if there's one thing more evident than another." she muttered after a pause, "it's this: I must not leave Madersley at present. I'll just go to the hotel and tell Mr. Dolman that I am on the trail, and that not all the coaxing and all the worriting in the world will get me off it until I have found those children."

No sooner had this resolve formed itself in Fortune's stalwart mind than she hailed a fly and desired the man to drive her to the Madersley Arms. When she reached the big hotel she was shown at once into Mr. Dolman's presence.

"Now, sir," she said; "I hope you have all had a good tea and enjoyed it."

"Very much, thank you," replied Uncle William, who really, if the truth must be known, was having quite a delightful time—no Aunt Jane to pull him up, no sermons to write, and a vast amount of variety to occupy his mind. "We have enjoyed our tea, all of us," he said; "and now, Fortune, would not you like a cup? Iris, my dear, we'll ring the bell for some more hot water."

"Thank you, sir" replied Fortune; "but I have no time to eat nor drink at present. I am on the trail, and no one can get me off it."

"Do you really mean that you have had news of the children?"

"I have had very positive news. Why, they belonged to the circus we went to see to-day! I had my suspicions as soon as ever I heard that woman talking and saying that the performance was miserably poor without the children. At that very instant it came right over me that it was our little Miss Di who had made things so sparkling and lively."

"Oh, Fortune! let me go to her," cried Iris. "Is she there? Please, Fortune, take me to her at once."

"Now, Iris, love, that's just what I can't do. Patience has to be exercised always in the matter of trails," continued Fortune; "and when we hurry or flurry ourselves we lose the scent, and then we are nowhere. The children did belong to the circus, for I had it from the lips of one of the circus girls. Poor innocent lambs, to think of them having anything to do with such a defiling place! But there they were, and there they would not stay, for three nights ago, Iris, they ran away, and nobody in the wide world knows where they are at the present moment."

"Well, and what do you propose to do?" said Mr. Dolman. "For my part, I think the police——"

"Excuse me, sir, this is a matter for me, not the police. I propose, sir, to stay at Madersley until I bring the children back. I hope to bring them back to-night."

"To-night!" cried Iris. "Oh, Fortune! do you mean it?"

"Yes, my love. I am an American, and I generally do what I say. I mean to bring the little dears back to their rightful home to-night. And now I'm off, and please expect me when you see me."

Fortune turned abruptly and left the hotel. She walked down the High Street.

"Now," she said to herself, "why should not I just go and pay a visit to my old friend and neighbor, Matty Bell. I want a woman that is a gossip just now, and if there is a gossip in the whole of Madersley, it's Matty Bell. As a rule, I can't abear her, but there are times when a gossiping woman comes in handy; and Matty's neither very low nor very high up in the world, so she's acquainted with all that goes on in both circles, the high and the low. Yes, I'll go to Matty this very moment; and as there's not any time to lose, I'll take a fly and drive there."

Fortune hailed the first fly she came across, and was quickly borne to the abode of her old neighbor, Matty Bell.

Matty Bell was a woman of about sixty years of age. At one time she had been a servant at Delaney Manor, but having married, and then lost her husband, she had set up in the laundry line. In that interesting trade she had done a thriving business, and kept a comfortable roof over her head. She had never had children, and consequently had plenty of time to attend to her neighbors' affairs.

"Well, to be sure, Fortune, and what brings you here?" she said, when Fortune alighted from the fly. "Dear heart! I didn't know that you would care to leave Delaney Manor with all the troubles about."

"And what troubles do you mean now, Matty Bell?" said Fortune, as she paid a shilling to the driver, and then tripped lightly into Matty's little front parlor.

"Why, the death of the poor missus, Heaven bless her memory! and then the master going off to the other end of nobody knows where, and all them blessed little children took from their home and carried—oh, we needn't go into that, Fortune—it's been a trouble to you, and I see it writ on your face."

"You are right there, Matty," said Fortune; "it has been a bitter trouble to me, and there's more behind, for the lady who took the children had no right to interfere, not having a mother's heart in her breast, for all that Providence granted her five babes of her own to manage. What do you think she went and did, Matty? Why, lost two of our children."

"Lost two of 'em? Sakes alive! you don't say so!" replied Matty. "Have a cup of tea, Fortune, do; I have it brewing lovely on the hob."

"No, thank you," replied Fortune. "I'm in no mood for tea."

"Well, then, do go on with your story, for it's mighty interesting."

"It's simple enough," replied Fortune. "Two of the children are lost, and now I have traced 'em to a circus in the town."

"A circus here—what, Holt's?" said the woman.

"No less. Why, Matty; you look queer yourself. Do you know anything?"

"I know nothing for certain," said Matty. "I can only tell you—but there, perhaps I had better not say—only will you excuse me for a minute or two, Fortune?"

"I'll excuse you, Matty, if you are on the trail of the children, but if you aren't, you had better stay here and let me talk matters over. You always were a fearful one for gossip, and perhaps you have picked up news. Yes, I see you have—you have got something at the back of your head this blessed minute, Matty Bell."

"That I have," replied Mrs. Bell. "But please don't ask me a word more, only let me get on my bonnet and cloak."

Mrs. Bell left the room, and quickly returned dressed in her widow's weeds, for though Bell had been dead for over ten years, his widow was still faithful to his memory; she slipped a thick crepe veil over her face, and went out, looking the very essence of respectability. She was not more than twenty minutes away, and when she came back she looked much excited. On each of her smooth, pasty cheeks might even be seen a little flush of color, and her dull blue eyes were brighter than their wont.

"Fortune," she cried, "as there's a heaven above me, I've found 'em!"

"Bless you, Matty; but where—where?"

"Why, at no less a place than Jonathan Darling's."

"Jonathan Darling? Who may he be?"

"He's as honest a fellow, Fortune, as you can find in the whole of Madersley—he drives a milk cart. He found the two little dears three mornings ago, wandering about in their circus dresses, and he took 'em home."

"Well," said Fortune, "well—then that's all right. It was a trouble, but it's over, thank the good God. I could fall on my knees this moment and offer up a prayer; that I could, Matty Bell."

Fortune's small, twinkling eyes were full of tears; she caught her neighbor's hand and wrung it hard.

"And I bless you, Matty," she continued, "for you have put me on the right trail. I'll never blame a gossiping neighbor again, never as long as I live."

"But you haven't heard me out to the end," said Matty, "for one of the little 'uns is very ill. You have found 'em, it is true; but it isn't all beer and skittles, Fortune Squeers."

"One of the children ill?" said Fortune.

"Yes; little Miss Diana. You come along and see her at once. They say she fell on her head out of a ring at the circus, and she must have hurt herself rather bad. Anyhow, she don't know a word she is saying, poor little dear."

When Fortune heard this news she shut up her mouth very tight, tied her bonnet-strings, and followed her neighbor out of the house.

The Darlings' humble little domicile happened to be in the next street, and in less than five minutes Fortune was standing over little Diana's bed. The child was tossing from side to side, her big eyes were wide open; she was gazing straight before her, talking eagerly and incessantly.

"Is it to be a pwivate funeral?" she said, when Fortune entered the room, and, falling on her knees, clasped the hot little hands in hers.

"Oh, my little darling!" said the good woman, "and have I really found you at last?"

She sank down by the child and burst into more bitter tears than she had even shed when Mrs. Delaney went away.



CHAPTER XXVI.

THE LITTLE MOTHER TO THE RESCUE.

Yes, the lost children were found, but little Diana was very ill. The blow she had received on her head had developed into inflammation of the brain. She was highly feverish, and did not in the least know what she was saying. Fortune immediately made up her mind not to leave her. After standing by her bedside for a minute or two, she went into the next room and asked Mrs. Darling if she would take a fly and go with little Orion to Delaney Manor.

"You are going to your own home, my poor little boy," said the nurse, "and please tell your uncle and Iris and Apollo that I am staying here to look after Diana."

The little boy was so excited at the prospect of being home once more that he forgot any small anxieties which he had experienced with regard to Diana. He started off, therefore, with Mrs. Darling in the highest spirits, and Fortune returned to the bedside of the sick child. Within a couple of hours after Orion's departure, Mr. Dolman arrived in person. When he saw Diana he immediately insisted on the best doctor in the place being sent for to see her.

The medical man arrived; but, when he did so, he shook his head.

"The child is dangerously ill," he said. "I could not hear of her being moved at present. She must have absolute quiet and good nursing."

"I'm going to nurse her," said Fortune.

"A properly trained nurse would be best," said the doctor.

"I and no other am going to nurse her," repeated Fortune.

She had taken off her bonnet and mantle and was seated quietly by the bedside. No one could look more capable, more determined, than the American woman did on this occasion. The doctor saw that he must give way.

"Haven't I done for her from the blessed moment when she was sent from heaven into her mother's arms?" continued Fortune. "I shall nurse her now, whether it's the will of the Almighty that she lives or dies."

At these words, little Diana opened her great, black eyes.

"And you'll never know fear Any more, little dear,"

she said in a voice of intense satisfaction. Then she looked up at Fortune, and raised her brow in a puzzled manner.

"I aren't fwightened of G'eased Lightning," she said. A smile broke over her little face, then the light of reason once more faded, and she entered the dark region of delirium and danger.

The doctor did all he could and Fortune did all she could, and presently Aunt Jane appeared on the scene, and insisted on seeing the child, and shook her head over her and cried a little privately; but, in spite of all their efforts to get her well again, little Diana grew weaker, day by day. She did not know Fortune, except at very rare intervals. Day and night she talked incessantly of her past life, of the beautiful garden, of the animals, of Rub-a-Dub, and more especially of Rub-a-Dub's public funeral. She also mentioned Greased Lightning and Pole Star, and Uncle Ben and the circus; but when she talked of them her voice changed; it grew high, eager, and excited, and her little breath panted out of her weary body. She often ended her delirious talk with a cry of distress.

"Oh, I has fallen," she said, with a sob. "I has fallen from the wing." Then she would clasp both her hot hands to her aching head, and moan bitterly.

The doctor was very anxious about her, and Fortune was very sad, and so was Uncle William, and even Aunt Jane.

The cablegram was sent to father, and they all earnestly hoped that he was already on his homeward way.

Meanwhile, at the Manor, Iris, Apollo, and Orion had a hard time. It is true that they were no longer fettered or coerced in any way. Aunt Jane took scarcely any notice of them, and Uncle William spent most of his time alone. The three children could come in and out of the house as they pleased; they could wander about the garden where four used to play happily; they could visit the old haunts that four used to love; but because the fourth was now absent, the joy and the mirth of the old days seemed quite to have left the remaining three.

As time went by, Iris grew whiter and whiter. Often she wandered away by herself, and flinging herself on the ground, would moan out her distress.

"Mother, mother," she used to sob, "I have not done what you told me; I have not been a little mother. Can you ever forgive me? Oh, if Diana dies, I am certain that I shall never forgive myself."

At last, when a fortnight had passed by, Iris had a dream. She never told her dream to anyone, but she got up that morning with a very determined expression on her small face. After breakfast she went straight downstairs to the library, and spoke to Uncle William.

"Uncle William," she said, "I want to say that I am going to see Diana."

"My dear," said Uncle William, who was furtively at that moment wiping a tear from his eye, "I greatly fear that you cannot do so; we have had bad news of little Diana this morning. I greatly fear, Iris, that she will not be long with us; her strength is going, and there is little chance of the fever abating. The doctor has but a small hope of her recovery—in fact, I may almost say that he has no hope."

"It is a fortnight since Diana was found, and you have never let me see her yet," continued Iris; "but I am going to her to-day. I had a dream last night," she continued, "and in my dream I—But I'm not going to say anything more, only I must see Diana to-day."

"I am afraid you cannot do so, Iris," replied Uncle William.

"And why not, if the child has the wish?" remarked Aunt Jane suddenly.

Until that moment Iris had no idea that Aunt Jane was in the room. She started now when she heard her voice; but reading the expression on her face, she ran up to her eagerly.

"If you are for it, Aunt Jane, it will be all right," she cried. "Please have a carriage ordered this minute and let me go."

"I would not, if I were you, wife," said Uncle William. "You see how delicate Iris is already, and the sight of her little sister would shock her dreadfully."

"She may just as well go," said Aunt Jane. "In my opinion, it would be wrong to leave any stone unturned, and Iris always had a remarkable influence over the other children. Besides, my dear William, when David comes back, I should not like Iris to have to tell him that I refused what, after all, is a very natural request."

"Aunt Jane, I love you for those words," said Iris.

Aunt Jane's face quite flushed when Iris said she loved her. She went across the room and rang the bell.

"Desire the pony carriage to be sent round directly," was her order to the servant when he appeared.

Accordingly, in less than half an hour, Iris and Aunt Jane were driving into Madersley. They went straight to the humble house where the Darlings lived. The greater part of the house was given up to little Diana and her nurse.

"Please, Aunt Jane," said Iris, as they approached the door; "may I go into Diana's room by myself? I don't want anyone to be with me when I see her."

"You may have it your way, Iris," said Aunt Jane. "I interfered once, and I believe I did wrong; now you shall have it your own way."

"Thank you, Aunt Jane," answered Iris. She scarcely looked at her aunt; all her thoughts were centered on the mission which she had taken in hand. When the carriage drew up at the humble door, the child ran straight into the house.

"Who may you be, little miss?" said Bessie Darling, who had never seen her before.

"I am the sister of Diana; I am a mother to the others," said Iris.

"Sakes alive!" exclaimed the woman. "You a mother? Why, you poor little mite, you look as if you wanted a deal of mothering yourself."

"Please tell me what room my sister is in," said Iris, removing her hat as she spoke.

Bessie Darling stared at her for a moment, then she pointed to a door. Iris turned the handle and entered the room.

It was a hot day, and the window was wide open; a green blind was down to keep out the glare of the sun; there was a quantity of ice in a great pail in one corner of the room, and, as Iris softly entered, Fortune was in the act of putting a fresh cold cloth on the sick child's forehead.

Little Diana was murmuring her ceaseless refrain:

"You'll never know fear, Any more, little dear. Good-by."

"Why, Diana!" said Iris.

Iris's voice was quite fresh. It had a different note in it from all the voices which for weeks had sounded in little Diana's ears. She was lying in a partial stupor, but now she opened her eyes very wide.

"Iris," she said; "Iris." And a smile broke all over her face.

Iris ran up to the bedside. She was always quiet in her manner; great excitement only accentuated her quiet. She knelt down at once by the sick child, and took both her hot hands in hers.

"Darling," she said, "I am your little mother, and I have come back to you."

"That's beautiful," answered Diana. She uttered a very deep sigh. She had been tossing restlessly about, but now her hot hands lay quiet in Iris'.

As to Fortune, she was so amazed that she did not utter a word.

"Go to sleep, Di," said Iris, in a voice of authority; "I am your little mother, and I wish you to go to sleep."

"It's awfu' nice to be mothered again," said Diana. She opened her eyes languidly, fixed them on Iris, smiled once more, and then the thick lashes fell over the pale cheeks. In about five minutes she was sound asleep.

Little Diana had often slept during the past fortnight, but during all that time she had had no sleep like this—so quiet, so restful. Iris, kneeling by her side, never moved.

"Let me give you a chair or you'll faint, my love," said Fortune, in a low whisper.

Iris shook her head.

Soon afterwards Fortune softly left the room, and then there fell a deep and solemn silence over the little house.

Aunt Jane, Bessie Darling, and Fortune all sat in the outer room. The heat grew greater; they opened both door and window, and a gentle breeze now blew through the sick-room. The child slept on. The little mother kneeling by her side remained as still as if she was carved in marble.

About four in the afternoon the doctor came in.

"Who is this?" he whispered, looking at Iris.

"It's the eldest little sister, sir," said Fortune; "she came down here this morning quite unbidden, and she told the little one that she was her mother, and the little one smiled and went off sound asleep directly."

The doctor, too, retreated into the outer room.

"It is my belief that the little girl has saved the child's life," he said. "Whatever you do, don't make a sound; my little patient has not slept like this since the beginning of her illness. This sleep will probably be the turning-point. I shall not be far off; send for me whenever she awakens."

The day wore on, the evening approached; and Iris still knelt by Diana's side, and Diana still slept. The sick child had no dreams in that healthful, beautiful, life-restoring slumber. Slowly, hour by hour, the fret and the worry left the little face, the burning fever departed, the little brow grew cool and calm; smiles—baby smiles—came once more round the lips; the old child-look—the old Diana-look—returned.

Iris knelt on. Her knees ached, her arms ached, her head ached; she grew stiff; she grew first hot and then cold; but never once did she move or swerve from her original position. The great joy of her spirit supported her through the terrible ordeal. At long, long last she was really a little mother; she was saving Diana's life.

Now and then Fortune approached to hold a cup of milk or other restorative to Iris' pale lips. She feared that the child might faint before Diana awoke. But great love enabled Iris to go through this time of suffering. She neither fainted nor failed.

The beautiful healing sleep lasted for nearly eight hours; then, when faint, cool shadows had stolen across the sick room, little Diana opened her eyes. She saw Iris still kneeling in the same position and looking at her with a world of love in her face. Diana smiled back in answer to the love.

"I's k'ite well, Iris," she said. "I's had a beaut'ful s'eep, and there's not going to be a pwivate nor yet a public funeral."

"No, no, Di!" said Iris, sobbing now as she spoke.

"I's hung'y," said little Diana. "I'd like my supper awfu' much."

* * * * *

The crisis was over, and Diana was to live. From that hour she recovered, slowly but surely. Iris was allowed to be with her a good deal, and the mere fact of Iris being in the room always seemed to chase the irritation and the weakness of that long recovery away. At the end of a fortnight the sick child was well enough to return to Delaney Manor. Then, from being half well she became quite well, and when the autumn really came, and the cool breezes blew in from the sea, father returned to his home once more, and he and Aunt Jane had a long talk, and it was finally arranged that the four children were to remain in the old home, and were to play in the old garden, and that father was to stay at home himself and look after them as best he could.

"They are not ordinary children, and I frankly confess I cannot manage them," said Aunt Jane. "As to Iris, she is without exception the most peculiar child I ever came across; I know, of course, she is a good child—I would not say a word to disparage her, for I admire her strength—but when a child considers that she has got a mission——"

"I know all about that," said David Delaney.

"Iris thinks that she is to be a little mother to the others—those were Evangeline's last words to her. Well, Jane, it is a heavy burden for such a little creature to carry, but the fact of her obeying her mother's last injunction really saved little Diana's life."

THE END.