"Naughty Dottie!" said Iris earnestly, "to make such a noise. What's the matter?"

Dottie could not speak, for she was using all her breath to scream with, but she held out an appealing dumpy arm, and pointed to the doll.

"Why, that's Dottie's doll, Susie," said Iris, turning to the other little girl; "did you take it from her?"

Susie nodded, still with an unmoved countenance, and Dottie redoubled her screams. Iris put both hands over her ears in despair.

"Dottie," she said, "if you don't try to leave off I shall put you to bed, and let Susie keep the doll."

It was not at all easy for Dottie to leave off when she was once well set going, but she checked herself a little.

"Give the doll back, Susie," said Iris.

Susie looked up to see if her sister were in earnest, and meeting a glance of great severity she rose and advanced towards Dottie sideways, with one finger in her mouth, and holding the doll by the legs, head downwards. Dottie, still sniffing and sobbing, made a convulsive snatch at it.

"Kiss each other," said Iris, for this was always a sign that the quarrel was over for the time and peace agreed on between the two little girls. They had hardly given each other the angry embrace usual at such moments when a boy's voice rang shrilly from the top of the stairs.

"Iris, Iris! Where's Iris? Oh, Iris, do just come here!"

Poor mother! Any chance of her getting some sleep must be over long ago. It was impossible to keep the children quiet.

"Clement," said Iris impatiently, as a boy in knickerbockers came tumbling down-stairs at headlong speed, "I do think you might remember that mother has a headache. Why can't you come and find me instead of shouting about like that?"

"Oh, I say," said Clement, stopping short and staring at her, "aren't you just cross this evening! What makes you in such a tremendous temper?"

Iris felt almost inclined to cry.

"What do you want me for?" she said in a resigned and injured voice.

"Why, just look here!" Clement raised one knee and displayed a wide rent in his knickerbockers, of the shape known as a "trap-door." Through this he stuck his fingers, that it might be shown to better advantage. "Caught it on a nail on the squirrel-house," he said briefly.

"Oh, dear me!" said Iris wearily; "there's an evening's work. And I've only just finished Max's socks. Pray, don't make it any larger, Clement."

"You'll mend it, won't you?" said Clement earnestly, still gazing at his knee. "You see it shows so awfully, and I shall want to put 'em on to-morrow."

"Yes," said Iris, "I suppose I must. I'm sure Mary won't have time."

"You're a brick," said Clement, and he gave her a rough kiss on the cheek and rushed off.

"How tiresome the boys are!" said Iris impatiently to herself; "how tiresome it is to be poor! How tiresome everything is!" and she sat down on the last step of the stairs and rested her head mournfully on her hand. Then her eye caught sight of a letter lying on a table in the passage. It was a fat rich-looking envelope, and it was directed in a stiff upright hand. Iris knew that writing—it was her godmother's. "How funny," she thought, "just as I was thinking of Paradise Court. I'll take it up to mother."

But there was something stranger still in store for her when Mrs Graham had read that letter. It contained an invitation for Iris to spend a whole month with Mrs Fotheringham.

"Mother!" exclaimed Iris.

It was the only word she could say for some moments. It seemed too wonderful and delightful to be true.

"Can I go?" was her next breathless speech.

"Would you like so very much to go?" asked her mother smiling.

It was an unnecessary question, for Iris's whole face was alight with joyful anticipation. Her cheeks flushed, and she shook her long hair back impatiently as though eager to take flight at once.

"It will be a nice holiday for you," continued Mrs Graham.

Suddenly it came into Iris's mind that it was mother who wanted a holiday. How tired she looked, and how often her head ached!

"Mother," she exclaimed impetuously, "I won't go! It's horrid of me to leave you with all the children. You ought to go instead."

"But you see I am not asked. I don't think that would quite do."

"Well, at any rate," said Iris, "I'd better not go," and she sighed.

"That would be a pity, indeed," said her mother; "and I should be sorry to refuse your godmother's kind offer for many reasons. And though I sha'n't see all the beautiful things at Paradise Court, I shall have pleasure, too, while you are there, because I shall know you are enjoying them."

"How I wish we could all have them!" said Iris.

"And yet there's something here in Albert Street," said her mother, "which I've got, and you've got, and even Dottie and Susie have too, which is worth more, and costs more, and does more good than all those things, and which no one could buy, if he were the richest man in the world."

At another time Iris would have paid attention to what her mother said; but now, although she heard the words, her mind was too full of Paradise Court to make any attempt to think of their meaning. She could only say to herself that she was to go quite away from Albert Street for a whole month—away from the noise and worry, and needlework and ugliness, to a place where birds sang, and flowers bloomed, and one might be idle all the day long.



STORY THREE, CHAPTER 2.

PARADISE COURT.

"No price is set on the lavish summer, June may be had by the poorest comer."—Lowell.

Paradise Court, where Mrs Fotheringham lived, was not very far from a small country town. Far enough, however, and sufficiently surrounded by its own garden and meadows, to prevent any vulgar sounds of toil and traffic from penetrating to it.

Mrs Fotheringham disliked the sight of poverty and dirt as much as the noise of hurry and bustle. "All she wanted," she said, "was peace and quietness," and she seldom stirred beyond the gates which opened to the high-road from her own grounds. Here, in the fine summer days, she was contented to take her exercise, to admire her flowers, to consult and scold her gardener, and to poke viciously at the weeds with her walking-stick. She was quite an old lady, a widow for many years, and lived alone, except for the society of a green parrot and a companion. The parrot might more justly have been called the "companion" than the lady who filled that post, for it was an old and valued friend, and in perfect sympathy with its mistress; the companion, on the contrary, was changed very often, and seldom stayed with her more than six months. "And yet," Mrs Fotheringham was used to observe, "there was really so little she required!" There were only four indispensable things, and for the rest she was not difficult to please. On these points, however, she must be satisfied: The lady must have sound views on Church and State; she must have seen good society; she must read aloud well; and she must understand how to make chicken curry, in case the cook was changed. Strange to say, however, the ladies were constantly found wanting in one or other of these matters. There was always a wrong flavour somewhere, either in the curry, or the church opinions, or the reading aloud, and perhaps this result was partly caused by the close observation of Mrs Fotheringham and the parrot, who seemed to lie in wait for all shortcomings with cold and critical glances. The bird was accustomed often to sit on its mistress's shoulder in which position it would trifle lovingly with the border of her cap and croon softly and coaxingly into her ear. At these times there was an air of most complete and confidential understanding between the two, which did not include the outside world, and there was something weird about it which might well affect the nerves of the lady on trial.

At any rate, though few other things changed much at Paradise Court, the companions were always coming and going, and shortly before Iris's visit a new one had arrived. Her name was Miss Munnion.

Iris reached Paradise Court at five o'clock in the afternoon, after a long and dusty journey. The old sober grey house looked very peaceful and quiet, but all round trees and shrubs and flowers waved their little green hands and seemed to dance rejoicing in their new spring dresses. For it was May time, and the weather, which had hitherto been cold and wet, had suddenly changed, sunshine streamed over the country, and the air was as warm as summer. Everything smelt so sweet, and looked so luxuriant and gay, that Iris felt quite confused and giddy as she stood waiting for the door to be opened; her winter frock and jacket seemed hot and stuffy, and the scent of the great lilac bushes and syringas and hawthorns wrapped her heavily round in a sort of dream.

But the door opened and the dream vanished at the appearance of a stiff-looking maid-servant, who scanned the small dusty figure and the shabby box on the top of the cab with equal indifference. "Mrs Fotheringham was walking in the garden," she said. "Would Miss Graham join her there, or would she prefer to go to her room?"

In a nervous flurry of shyness Iris replied that she would go to Mrs Fotheringham in the garden, though it was far from what she really wished, and the maid immediately led the way thither. There was no Mrs Fotheringham visible for some time, but presently, turning under a low archway, they entered a small walled garden, and then Iris saw her. She was inspecting her tulips, and was followed by Miss Munnion, and at a little further distance by the gardener. Over her cap she wore a comfortable white woollen hood, and in her hand she carried a stumpy blue umbrella; every now and then she stopped, and pointed out some special favourite with this, or shook it scornfully at something inferior, and in these criticisms Miss Munnion agreed with nods and shakes of the head. A fourth member of the party was the parrot, who, in his brilliant attire of emerald green, touched with glimpses of rose colour, matched the finest tulip there. Taking his pleasure after his own manner, he waddled along the turf border, turning in his crooked toes, and screwing his head sideways at intervals to look at the sky. Sometimes he stopped to tweak some tender stalk with his hooked beak, and sometimes he took a sudden and vicious little run at a sparrow or some other bird at a distance; when it flew away he flapped his wings and gave an exulting squawk.

Mrs Fotheringham came to a stand-still as Iris advanced, planted the blue umbrella firmly on the ground, and surveyed her gravely from top to toe. The old lady, with her high-bridged nose, was certainly a little like the parrot in the face, and though her eye had not the changing brilliancy of the bird's, it was quite its equal in the unblinking fixity of its gaze.

"Well, child," she said, when Iris was close to her, "you must have your frocks lengthened. You look positively gawky. Shake hands with Miss Munnion. Ah, mind the parrot! Moore!" raising her voice to call to the gardener, "is it possible I see that odious pink and white stripe amongst the tulips again?—you know I hate it. The most mawkish, foolish thing! It offends the eye. See that it is rooted up without delay. Miss Munnion, we will now go indoors, and you'll perhaps be kind enough to show this young lady her room, and tell her when we dine and so forth. I forget your name," (turning sharply to Iris). "Something tiresome and fantastical, I know. Ah! Iris. Well, Iris, when you want to know anything, or do anything, or go anywhere, you are to ask Miss Munnion. Never come to me with questions, or ask me 'why.' Miss Munnion doesn't mind being asked 'why.' You are here, you know, with a distinct understanding that you are not to be troublesome, and that you are to amuse yourself. As long as you do that, I daresay we shall get on very well, and I don't care how long you stay; but I'm not used to children, and, of course, if I find you in the way I shall send you home at once. I think that's all I have to say. Oh, there's one thing more. If you ever drive out with me I wish you to remember that I dislike talking in a carriage. I tell you all this because it's always better to put things on a right footing from the first."

They had reached the house by this time, and as Iris followed Miss Munnion meekly and silently upstairs she made up her mind on two points: She would never drive with her godmother unless she were absolutely obliged, and she would very seldom ask Miss Munnion "why," or apply to her in any way. For she seemed a most uninteresting person; her features had a frozen, pinched-up look, and her eyes had no sort of brightness in them. It was impossible to imagine that she ever laughed; but at least, thought Iris, she might try and look cheerful. When she was left alone she looked round her room with mingled awe and satisfaction; everything was so bright and fresh and comfortable, and there were actually easy-chairs! From the window she could see far-stretching peaceful green fields, where the grass was getting tall and thick. Cowslips would grow there, without doubt. The only sounds were the twittering evening song of the birds, the cooing of the pigeons in the stable-yard, and far off a distant cry of someone calling home the cows to be milked. How Iris loved it all! How different it was to Albert Street! If you looked out of the window from the bare little room she shared with Susie and Dottie you saw nothing green at all, only a row of staring ugly yellow houses—the most pleasant noise you could hope for was the rattle of a cart or the grinding of an organ. Just at this very minute she went on to remember it was tea-time in Albert Street. Dinner for father and mother at one end of the table, and tea for the children at the other. There was the big yellow jug full of tea, ready mixed with milk and sugar, which Iris always poured out for herself and her brothers and sisters. The only difference this evening would be, that mother would pour it out instead, and cut the thick bread and butter for the hungry boys. She saw it all, and as she saw it she shook her head. "Certainly," she said to herself, "it is a bad thing to be poor."

Dinner was at six o'clock, because it did not suit Mrs Fotheringham's digestion to dine later; it was a solemn and delicately prepared little meal, served by a maid who stepped about silently, never clattering the dishes, and this absence of noise was in itself a strange thing to Iris, for she was used to associate food with much rattle of knives and forks and clash of crockery. There were many nice things to eat and pretty things to look at, but it was rather awful, too, to sit in almost perfect silence and listen to the remarks of Mrs Fotheringham and Miss Munnion. Opposite to Iris there was a long low window, through which she could see part of the lawn and a path leading to the kitchen-garden. She sat gazing vacantly out upon this, when suddenly she saw something very interesting.

This was a man, who came rushing along the path in the most frantic hurry, beating and dashing about him with his hat, and shaking his head incessantly. He was either pursued by some unseen and terrible enemy, or else he was crazy. Whichever it was, it was so exciting to Iris that she craned her neck to follow his movements as far as she could, and presently, moved by his increasing agitation, she exclaimed aloud:

"What can be the matter with him?"

Her godmother's keen eye followed her glance to where the unfortunate man was still dodging about as though to escape something, and striking madly out into the air. She smiled contemptuously.

"It's that idiotic Moore," she said. "He irritates the bees, and I don't wonder. I'm sure he irritates me."

"He'll be stung," exclaimed Iris, getting up from her chair eagerly; "he'll certainly be stung!"

"Yes," said Miss Munnion, laying down her knife and fork, and looking mildly round at Moore's struggles, "I'm really afraid he will."

"Very likely," remarked Mrs Fotheringham composedly; "he often is. I've always noticed," she continued, with a pointed glance at her companion, "that bees, as well as birds and beasts, are quite aware when anyone's frightened of them. Moore's a complete coward, and they know it. They never touch me."

The parrot and Mrs Fotheringham had already discovered that Miss Munnion was nervous. She was afraid of all animals, but specially of parrots.

"Once," continued the old lady, "you show fear to man, woman, or child, you are their bond-slave for ever. And it's the same with the lower animals."

Miss Munnion said that she had often observed it, and that it was very true.

The following morning Iris woke up to remember that her holiday had really begun, and that there was a whole long day before her with no duties in it—nothing but idle hours and sunshine. It was the strangest thing in the world at first, and quite difficult to believe, that as long as she appeared at meal-times, no one would ask, "Where is Iris?" No one would say, "Fetch this," or "Go there," or "Do this." Her time was her own at Paradise Court, and she was left to fill it up just as she pleased. And she spent most of it in the garden and fields, for fortunately the fine weather continued, and it was hardly necessary to be indoors at all.

How beautiful it all was! Every morning something new had budded or blossomed, and was ready to greet her with its fresh bright face; for the spring had till lately been so cold and wet that the flowers could not bloom at the right time, and now, called out by the mild soft air, they all came crowding eagerly together, looking over each other's shoulders, as it were, and almost tripping each other up in their haste. So Iris found kingcups, primroses, and cowslips all in blossom together in different parts of the fields, and the garden was suddenly bright with all sorts of flowers which had seldom seen the sunshine in each other's company before. And there were other interesting things too, for the birds were all busy just now about their domestic concerns, and she discovered more than one nest built so confidingly, that they were low enough for her to peep into them and meet the bright glance of the mother bird.

"If I could only show them to Max and Clement," she said to herself as she stole away on tiptoe, holding her breath. Then there were the bees, Moore's deadly enemies, which lived in a long row of hives under the kitchen-garden wall; they were quite friendly to Iris, and allowed her to watch their comings and goings without any show of anger. She had friends, too, in the pigeons, which soon learnt to come fluttering round her to be fed, and in the three sleek brown and white cows which she saw milked every evening.

In the midst of so much that was pleasant and delightful Iris sometimes felt almost beside herself with enjoyment. She was driven to jump and sing, and even to whistle in order to relieve her feelings, for there was no one to whom she could express them. There were, indeed, moments when she hardly restrained herself from rushing indoors to share some new-found delight with her godmother and Miss Munnion. It was almost impossible to keep it all to herself. One of these occasions was when, for the first time, she gathered her lap full of soft, faintly smelling cowslips. She sat and looked at them in lonely rapture.

Oh for Susie and Dottie to help her to make them up into balls! Then she remembered that she really had been very tired of Susie and Dottie; it was odd she should want them directly she got away from them.

Day followed day, each hour of them full of sunshine, and beauty, and leisure; but there was just one little drawback at Paradise Court, which Iris began to feel more and more strongly—there was no one to talk to. A hundred times a day she wanted someone to share her pleasure or amusement—to laugh with her, or wonder with her, or to search with her for fresh treasures. It seemed to take the edge off everything if she must enjoy it alone; and this desire for sympathy at last grew so strong that it caused her to be guilty of the grave indiscretion I shall now relate. A friend had once given Mrs Fotheringham a couple of half-wild white ducks of a peculiar kind, and these had so multiplied and increased in the quiet retreat of Paradise Court that they now threatened to become too numerous. Orders had accordingly been given that their eggs were to be taken wherever they were found, and as they were of a delicate flavour Mrs Fotheringham had them cooked for her private use. The poor ducks, therefore, were perpetually thwarted in their endeavours to bring up a family; but one of them continued its efforts in such an undaunted manner that Iris watched the struggle going on between it and Moore with the keenest interest. Nest after nest this duck made, laid its eggs, and settled itself comfortably, only to be disturbed with shouts and cries, and ruthlessly hustled off. Overcome for the moment, but "constant still in mind," it waddled composedly away, sought a more retired position, and made further arrangements. The same thing happened all over again! Poor duck! Iris felt very sorry for it, and would willingly have helped it to hide itself from Moore if she could; but it was impossible to convey this sympathy to its mind, and in the end it conducted its own affairs with great sagacity, and completely baffled the enemy. For one morning as she passed the bee-hives, her attention was caught by some soft white object under one of them, almost concealed by the straw hackle which came low down on each side of it. She stopped; could it be her friend the duck? It really was; it sat there on its nest in a heavenly calm of perfect security, safe at last, and its round dark eye gazed serenely forth upon all the world, including Moore. It had nothing further to fear from him.

The duck had won, and Iris felt so glad that she longed to shake hands with it, and make it understand how clever she thought it. She was, indeed, so pleased that it was absolutely necessary to tell someone about it, and after she had smiled and nodded at the duck a great many times, to which it made no sort of response, she turned and ran quickly indoors. Now she lived so much alone at Paradise Court that she was ignorant that this very hour was sacred to Mrs Fotheringham's nap; it was most important that she should not be disturbed, and no one would lightly have done so who knew how much depended on it. If she did not get her nap she did not relish her dinner; and if she did not relish her dinner she was cross; and if she was cross the whole household was uncomfortable, for she could by no means suffer other people to be at rest if she were uneasy.

On this particular afternoon she was well on the way to get a very comfortable doze. The day was warm; the room was carefully darkened Miss Munnion sat holding her book close to a crack in the Venetian blind, reaching aloud in a subdued and murmurous voice. Whether Mrs Fotheringham slept or not she had to go on for an hour. The old lady, drowsy with the unusual heat, was just on the edge of slumber, but still partly conscious; sometimes she lost a whole page of the book at a time, then she heard a little of it, and then Miss Munnion turned into a bee and buzzed in the window. Just at this critical moment Iris banged open the door and burst into the silent room.

"Oh!" she cried in her shrill childish voice, "what do you think the duck has done?"

It was so dark after the bright sunlight out of doors that at first she did not see her godmother at all, but only Miss Munnion, who dropped her book in her lap and stared at her with a helpless and frightened face.

Mrs Fotheringham started nervously; she grasped the arms of her chair and exclaimed half awake in an agitated voice:

"What's the matter? Who's there? Who's done what?"

"It's the duck," stammered Iris in a more subdued manner.

"Is the chimney on fire?" continued Mrs Fotheringham. "I insist on knowing what's the matter. Miss Munnion, where are you? Why don't you find out what's the matter?"

"It's something about a duck," said Miss Munnion slowly, "but I really— don't—quite—"

By this time Mrs Fotheringham was fully awake, and had recovered from her confusion.

"You never do, quite," she said sharply. Then to Iris:

"Child, come here and explain why you rush into the room in this abominable manner."

Poor Iris advanced. She wished she could say that something was on fire, or that something more important had happened than the duck sitting under the bee-hive. It seemed nothing at all now, not the least amusing, and certainly not a sufficient reason for disturbing her godmother's nap.

"I didn't know you were asleep," she began.

"Keep to the point," said Mrs Fotheringham; "what did you do it for?"

Iris told her story very lamely, and conscious of an unsympathetic audience. The very parrot ruffled up his feathers and turned his glistening eye upon his mistress when it was over, as though he shrugged his shoulders and said:

"Here's a poor affair!"

"Do you mean to tell me, you stupid and vexing child," said Mrs Fotheringham, "that you woke me up merely to relate this nonsense?"

Iris had nothing to say, but she thought it unkind of Miss Munnion to murmur in the background:

"Most thoughtless!"

"If anything of this nature occurs again," said Mrs Fotheringham severely, "I shall send you home at once. Other failings I can excuse, but selfish thoughtlessness is a thing I abhor. There, go away. No, Miss Munnion, you needn't read any more, I shall not be able to sleep now. My nerves are quite shaken."

Iris wandered disconsolately out into the garden. Everything looked as bright and gay as ever, but she felt sad. It was hard to be disgraced and scolded as though she had done something wrong, when she had only made a mistake. "I really did think they would like to hear about the duck," she said to herself; "and how could I know she was asleep?" How they would have liked it at home! How often mother was waked up suddenly by the noise of the children, or the boys rushing in to ask her something! Her patient face came before Iris now, full of the gentleness and love which were always there as a matter of course, because she was "mother." There was something wanting at Paradise Court—something that not all its radiant flowers, and pleasant luxurious rooms, and daintily prepared meals could supply.

"After all," said Iris, "it doesn't seem to make people kinder to have so many nice things as my godmother."

She came to this conclusion with a sigh, and then, hearing the stable clock strike five, remembered that it was post time. Perhaps there would be a letter from home. At any rate she would run down to the lodge and meet the postman. It was such a cheering thought that she felt almost happy again, and ran along whistling and swinging her straw-hat in her hand. The drive was long and very winding, so that she did not at first perceive that there was someone in front of her who seemed to be bound on the same errand; when she did so, however, she had no difficulty in recognising the figure, which had a lop-sided movement like a bird with one wing. It was Miss Munnion. She was evidently in great haste, and walking, or rather running faster than Iris had ever seen her—so fast, indeed, that she was soon hidden in a sudden turn of the road, and was next visible coming back with the letters in her hand. Walking slowly now, she was reading an open one, and stopped now and then to study it more attentively. Iris ran up to her with the eager question, "Is there one for me?" on her lips; but when she saw Miss Munnion's face she checked herself. For the frozen little countenance had thawed, the features worked and twisted about strangely, and the dull eyes were full of tears.

"What's the matter?" said Iris bluntly. Miss Munnion looked up; she was completely altered in voice and manner; her hands trembled, her little lace head-dress was crooked; she was evidently deeply troubled.

"It's my sister Diana," she said—"my only sister. She is dangerously ill. She's been asking for me."

"Where is she?" asked Iris.

"Oh, that's the worst of it!" cried Miss Munnion. "It's all the way to Sunderland, right up in the north. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Of course you must go to her," said Iris, with the confidence of youth.

"But," said poor Miss Munnion, looking at the child without a spark of hope in her eyes, but a great longing for help and advice, "there's Mrs Fotheringham. She'll disapprove, she so dislikes being worried. When I came she told me she hoped I had no relations to unsettle me. And I haven't. I haven't a soul in the world that cares for me except Diana. And she was always so strong. How could I tell she would fall ill?"

"Perhaps you wouldn't be gone long," suggested Iris, "and I could read to godmother."

"I'm so afraid," said Miss Munnion, wiping her eyes meekly, "that Mrs Fotheringham will dismiss me if I go, and I can't afford to lose the situation—I really can't. And it's such an expensive journey to Sunderland. And yet, there's Diana; she comes before everything, and it cuts me to the heart to think of her asking for me."

Iris stood looking at her gravely. She felt very sorry, but also a little contemptuous. Of course Diana ought to come before everything, and yet Miss Munnion did not seem able to make up her mind to go to her.

"Well," she said, "you can't go to Sunderland and stay here too."

"Very true," murmured Miss Munnion. She did not mean anything by these words, but they were so habitual that she could not help using them.

"Then you'd better come straight to my godmother and tell her," said Iris, "if you mean to go."

"Oh, of course I mean to go," said Miss Munnion reproachfully. "How could I forsake Diana when she wants me?"

"Well, then, there's no use in thinking of anything else," said Iris.

It was an evident relief to Miss Munnion to be taken in hand firmly even by a child. Years of dependence on the whims and fancies of others had deprived her of what little decision and power of judgment she had possessed. She could hardly call her mind her own, so how could she make it up on any point?

Yet all through her troubled and dreary life one feeling had remained alive and warm—affection for her sister Diana. "Many waters cannot quench love," and its flame still burned bright and clear in Miss Munnion's heart.

"Although she really is very silly," thought Iris, as they turned back together towards the house, "there's something I like about her after all. She's much nicer than my godmother."

She hurried Miss Munnion along as fast as she could, almost as though it were Susie or Dottie she had in charge; and indeed the poor lady was so nervous at the prospect of Mrs Fotheringham that she was as helpless as a child. She stumbled along, falling over her gown at every step, dropping her letters, or her spectacles, or her pocket handkerchief, and uttering broken sentences about her sister Diana. Iris picked up these things again and again, and at last carried them herself, and so brought Miss Munnion triumphantly, but in a breathless condition, to the door of the house.

"Now," she said, "you'd better take the letters in to my godmother and tell her all about it at once. I'll wait here till you come back."

She had not to wait long, for Miss Munnion reappeared in less than five minutes shaking her head mournfully.

"It's just as I thought it would be," she said. "Mrs Fotheringham thinks it's very unreasonable of me to want to go to Diana."

"Did you tell her she was ill?" asked Iris.

"Yes, and she said she supposed there were doctors in Sunderland who would do her more good than I should. She doesn't seem to be able to understand why I should want to go. She says it's fussy."

"Did you tell her that I would read to her while you are gone?" asked Iris.

"No, my dear, I couldn't get that in; she's so very impetuous. And besides, the first thing she said was:—

"'Of course you'll understand, Miss Munnion, that if you feel obliged to go to Sunderland our connection is at an end.' So I shall lose the situation after all," ended Miss Munnion with a sigh.

Iris stood in silent thought for a moment.

"Did she look very angry?" she said at length.

"Well, yes," said Miss Munnion. "I must say she seemed completely upset. I think she was vexed to start with, because, you know, she didn't get her nap."

"You stop here a minute," said Iris suddenly, and ran into the house. She pushed open the door of Mrs Fotheringham's sitting-room gently and peeped in. Her godmother was sitting very upright in her high-backed chair, a frown on her brow, and the parrot on her shoulder. She looked so alarming that Iris felt almost inclined to run away again, but the old lady turned her head suddenly and saw her.

"Well," she said, with an air of sarcastic resignation, "what do you want? Any more ducks under bee-hives, or have you got a sick sister too?"

"Please, godmother," said Iris, with a great effort, "I want you to let me read to you while Miss Munnion is away."

"Oh!" said Mrs Fotheringham.

She stared silently at Iris for a moment, then resumed.

"I've no doubt it would be an immense pleasure to listen to you if you read like most children of your age. Anything more?"

Iris became scarlet under her godmother's fixed gaze, for both she and the parrot seemed to be chuckling silently at her confusion. But she thought of Diana, and of poor Miss Munnion waiting outside, and managed to gasp out:

"Please let Miss Munnion come back."

"She hasn't gone yet that I know of," replied Mrs Fotheringham, without removing her eyes from the child.

"But she must," continued Iris, "because of Diana."

"Well, I must say, you are a most extraordinary child," said the old lady, after another pause, "with your ducks and your Dianas! What is it to you, I should like to know, whether Miss Munnion goes or stays? It doesn't interfere with your comfort, I suppose."

Iris could not answer this question, but she stuck to her point, and said in a low voice:

"I should like her to see her sister and come back."

Mrs Fotheringham looked more and more puzzled, and her frown grew deeper. Iris felt that there was not a gleam of hope for Miss Munnion and Diana; but when at last the words came she found she was mistaken, for they were as follows:

"You may go and tell Miss Munnion," said the old lady, "that the sooner she starts on this wild-goose chase the better, and that I will spare her for one week, but if she wants to stop away longer she needn't come back at all. And this is on the condition that neither you nor she are to mention her sister Diana to me ever again, whether she is ill, or well, or anything about her. As to your reading to me, I've no doubt you either mumble or squeak, and I couldn't bear it, so pray don't imagine you'll be the least use while she's away, or let her imagine it."

She waved her mittened hand fretfully, and Iris, thankful to be released, flew with her good news to the trembling Miss Munnion.

Early the next morning, almost unnoticed by the household, and carrying her own little black bag, she started on her two-miles walk to the station. Iris went with her as far as the lodge gates.

"Good-bye," she said, holding out her hand, "and I hope you'll find your sister Diana better." She felt inclined to add, "Take care of your purse, and don't lose your ticket," as though she were parting from a child; but Miss Munnion suddenly leaned forward, and gave her a hard little nervous kiss. It felt more like a knock from something wooden than a kiss, and Iris was so startled that she received it in perfect silence. Before she had recovered herself the small figure, more lop-sided than ever now, because it was weighed down by the bag, had stumbled through the gates, and was on its way down the road. Iris watched till it was out of sight, and then went slowly back to the house.



STORY THREE, CHAPTER 3.

THE LOST CHANCE.

"For all is bright, and beauteous, and clear, And the meanest thing most precious and dear, When the magic of love is present— Love that lends a sweetness and grace To the humblest spot and the plainest face, That turns Wilderness Row to Paradise Place, And Garlick Hill to Mount Pleasant."—Hood.

Iris had no longer any completely idle days, for she soon found that her godmother expected her in some measure to fill Miss Munnion's place; she must be ready at Mrs Fotheringham's beck and call, to read to her, drive with her, and walk with her in the garden. They were none of them difficult duties, and could not in any sense be called hard work. A day at Paradise Court was in this respect still a very different matter from a day in Albert Street; yet sometimes Iris felt a heavy weariness hanging upon her, which was a new way of being tired—quite a different sort of fatigue to anything she had known before, but quite as uncomfortable. Most of all she hated the drives. To sit opposite her godmother in perfect silence in a close stuffy carriage, and be driven along the dusty roads for exactly an hour at exactly the same pace. Not a word spoken, unless Mrs Fotheringham wished the blinds pulled up or down, or a message given to the coachman. Iris longed feverishly sometimes to jump out and run up a hill, or to climb over the gates into the fields they passed on the way. There were such lots of lovely things to gather just now. Dog roses and yellow honeysuckle in the hedges, poppies and tall white daisies in the fields, and waving feathery grasses. But at all these she could only look and long out of the carriage window. She often thought at these times of poor Miss Munnion, and wondered how her sister Diana was, and whether she had been very glad to see her, and most of all she wondered how Miss Munnion could have been so anxious to keep the situation; she must be so very tired of sitting opposite Mrs Fotheringham and looking out of the carriage window.

These reflections were of course kept to herself, and indeed conversation of any kind was forbidden during the drives, but Iris was so used to talking that it was impossible to her to keep silence at other times. By degrees she lost her awe of her godmother, and chattered away to her about that which interested herself—her brothers and sisters, their sayings and doings, and their life at home. Sometimes she found Mrs Fotheringham's keen dark eyes fixed inquisitively upon her, as though they were studying some curious animal, and sometimes her funniest stories about Dottie or Susie were cut short by a sharp, "That will do, child. Run away."

But this did not discourage her, and she became so used to her godmother's manner that it ceased to alarm her, and once she even contradicted her as bluntly as though she had been Max or Clement. Even this had no bad effect, however, for shortly afterwards Mrs Fotheringham remarked:

"It's a positive relief not to have Miss Munnion here agreeing with everything I say. It's as fidgeting as a dog that's always wagging its tail."

But though she got on better than she could have expected with her godmother, and though Paradise Court was as beautiful and pleasant as ever, Iris's thoughts were now constantly at Albert Street. Albert Street, which was no doubt still ugly and disagreeable, hot, and glaring, and stuffy, and where even the summer sky looked quite different. Nevertheless there were some very delightful things there, seen from a distance. When anything amused Iris, Max's freckled face immediately came before her, with its sympathetic grin of enjoyment; when she was sad she felt Susie's and Dottie's soft little clinging fingers in her own; when she was dull she heard Clement's squeaky voice just ready to burst into a giggle at one of Max's stupid jokes. "It's a long time since I laughed till I ached," she said to herself. The peaceful repose of Paradise Court, the silence, which was only broken by a shriek from the parrot, and the murmurous coo of the pigeons outside, was indeed almost too complete. It would be nice to hear the hasty tramp of feet up and down stairs again, or someone shouting "Iris!" from the top of the house. Even the sound of Clement's one song, "The Ten Little Niggers," which he performed perpetually and always out of tune, would be pleasant to the ear. It had often made her cross in Albert Street, but now the thought of it was more attractive than the sweetest notes of the nightingales which sung every evening in the garden at Paradise Court.

One afternoon Iris was walking with her godmother in the little walled garden where she had found her on the first evening of her arrival. The tulips were over now, and Mrs Fotheringham's attention was turned to a certain border which Moore had been planting out under her direction; he had suffered a good deal during the process, for, being a slow thinker, he took some time to understand his mistress's meaning, which now and then escaped him entirely. Often, however, he was afraid to ask her to repeat an order, because it made her so angry, and in consequence his mistakes were many and frequent, which made her more angry still. This very day she had discovered that he had actually sown the sweet peas in the wrong place.

"The man's a perfect fool!" she exclaimed in great wrath; "after all the minute directions I gave him about this border. He gets stupider and stupider every day. One would think he had a thousand things to employ his mind, if he's got a mind, instead of these few simple facts."

"Perhaps," said Iris, "he's been thinking about his baby. It's been awfully ill. Bronchitis it's had."

"His baby!" said Mrs Fotheringham, glaring round at her; "what do you know about his baby?"

"Oh," replied Iris cheerfully, "I know all about it. It's teething, you know, and then it caught cold, and then it turned to bronchitis. It's been ill a fortnight, but now it's taken a turn."

"Has it, indeed?" said Mrs Fotheringham sarcastically.

"You see," said Iris, "I know all about bronchitis, because Dottie had it so badly a year ago. We had to keep her in one room for ever so long. It was Roche's embrocation that did her more good than anything. I told Moore that, and he got some. When Dottie got better the doctor said we ought to take her to the seaside, but that was out of the question, mother said."

"Why?" asked Mrs Fotheringham.

"Because it would have cost so much," answered Iris.

She thought it was rather dull of her godmother not to have known that without asking, but as she seemed interested in Moore's baby she went on to supply her with a few more facts about his family.

"Moore has seven children," she said; "the eldest is just Max's age, ten years old. His name is Joseph. Then there's another boy, his name is Stephen. Then there's a girl, her name is—"

"Stop!" said Mrs Fotheringham sharply.

Iris looked up startled, in the act of checking off the members of Moore's family on her fingers. There was an expression of decided displeasure on Mrs Fotheringham's face.

"May I ask," she said, "how and where you have gathered these details about Moore's affairs?"

Iris hung her head. She had done something wrong again.

"It was after he told me his baby was ill," she said; "I told him about Dottie being ill, and how many brothers and sisters I had, and their names and ages, and then he told me about his children."

"And what possible interest could that be to you?" asked Mrs Fotheringham. "You appear to have very strange tastes. Pray, remember for the future that I object to your talking in this familiar way to Moore, or to any of the servants. Also, that there is nothing I detest so much as hearing about people's sick sisters, and sick babies, and so on. Everyone near me appears to have a sick relative just now, and to neglect their work in consequence."

So Moore's baby was a forbidden subject now as well as Miss Munnion's sister, Diana. It was a new thing to Iris to keep silence about what was passing in her mind, and a hundred times in the day she was on the very edge of some indiscreet remark. She managed to check herself before it came out, but it was really very difficult and tiresome.

"At any rate," she said to herself, "there's nothing we mus'n't talk about at home; and though we do all talk at once and make a great noise, it's much better than not talking at all."

Nevertheless the conversation had made some impression on Mrs Fotheringham, for the next day, after studying Iris in silence for some time, she said suddenly:

"Were you sorry not to go to the seaside after Lottie was ill?"

"Lottie?" said Iris; "oh, you mean Dottie. Her real name is Dorothy, you know, only she's so small, and round, and pudgy, Max says she's like a full stop. So she's always called Dottie."

"You've not answered my question," said Mrs Fotheringham.

"Why, of course we were all dreadfully sorry," answered Iris. "We did go once, but I'm the only one who remembers what it was like, because the others were too small."

"Did you like it?"

"I loved it," said Iris fervently, "The bathing, and the nice swishy noise the waves made on the beach, and the smell of the sea, and the rocks, and the sea-weed, and shrimps, and the tiny little crabs. It was lovely."

"It's a pity you can't often go," remarked Mrs Fotheringham.

"Yes," said Iris with a sigh, "it is. But, you see, the lodgings are so dear, and there's such a lot of us."

"Ah!" said Mrs Fotheringham, "it's a bad thing to be poor."

Iris looked up quickly. Those were the very words she had said to herself when she first arrived at Paradise Court. It seemed almost that her godmother must have overheard them, and yet that was quite impossible. A bad thing to be poor! Somehow Iris felt now that there might be worse things than want of money. It flashed across her, as she looked at Mrs Fotheringham, that she should not like to be a rich old lady with only a green parrot to love her.

"How would you like to have plenty of money?" asked Mrs Fotheringham.

"It would be very nice," said Iris, resting her chin on her hand, and proceeding to consider the subject. "I could buy presents for them all at home: lop-eared rabbits for Max, and a raven for Clement, and wax dolls for Susie and Dottie—they've only got rag ones."

"Humph!" was her godmother's only reply; "now you may run out into the garden."

Always glad to be released from Mrs Fotheringham's presence, and her shaded room, Iris took her straw-hat and ran out into the sunshine. As she went she turned over in her mind all the things she would buy and do if she were rich. This was not at all a new employment, for she and her brothers often did it at home, though they always differed widely as to the best way of spending the imaginary fortune. "I would buy mother a light green satin dress and pearls," she thought, "and give father a whole lot of books all bound in scarlet and gold, and—"

"If you please, miss, might you happen to have seen Muster Moore just lately?"

Iris looked round and saw a stout young woman with a checked shawl over her head; she was very red in the face, and panted as though she were quite out of breath.

"They told me in the house I should find him hereabouts," she went on; "but I've run all over the place and I can't catch sight of him, and I do want him most pertickler."

"He isn't here, I know," said Iris. "He's gone over to Dinham in the donkey-cart to fetch parcels from the station."

"Oh, dear!" said the young woman, wiping her hot face with her apron, "how orkerd things always do happen! There's the baby took ever so much worse. She can't hardly fetch her breath, poor lamb! And I want some more stuff to rub her chest with. I durs'n't leave her to go so far as Dinham myself for it."

"Can't you send one of the boys?" said Iris, much interested and full of sympathy.

"Bless you, missie, they're all at school. I've no one only the three little uns at home. Well, I must go back. There's a neighbour holding of her now."

"Stop a minute," said Iris, as the woman turned sadly away, "I'll go and fetch it. I know the way to Dinham."

She felt quite excited, and eager for the adventure.

"Thank you kindly, miss, but I couldn't trouble you, not to go all that way."

"It's only two miles across the fields," said Iris. "Moore told me so; and I know exactly what to ask for—a bottle of Roche's embrocation— I've often got it before."

Mrs Moore took a bottle from under her shawl and looked at it.

"I did bring the bottle with me," she said hesitatingly, "so as there shouldn't be no mistake."

"All right," said Iris, taking it from her and nodding cheerfully; "I won't be long, I can run very fast."

"You might happen to meet Moore comin' back, and then he could go and get it," continued Mrs Moore in an undecided tone.

But Iris did not wait for any further suggestions, she only nodded again and ran down the garden towards the gate which led into the fields. What a delightfully free feeling it was! She ran along the narrow pathway between the tall grass growing on each side, and heard her skirts brush against it as she passed with a nice whispering noise. The cool wind blew in her face and rustled in the trees, and made the red sorrel and daisies and cow-parsley bend and wave at her pleasantly. "Now I know how a bird feels when it gets out of a cage," she said to herself, and she was so happy that she sang a little tune. Added to her pleasure there was a great sense of adventure and even peril about the journey, for, though she did not confess to herself that she was disobeying her godmother, she yet knew that to rush over the fields to Dinham in this way to fetch medicine for Moore's baby was the last thing she would approve.

Without stopping to consider this, however, or to gather any of the tempting things growing so near her hand, she ran on, swinging the empty bottle in the air; on, on, through three long fields, and then she checked her speed, for in the distance she could see the chimneys of Dinham, and she knew she could not be far off.

She had often been there with her godmother, but that was by the road, shut up in a close carriage—now she would arrive on foot, alone, with her garden hat on, no gloves, and her hair quite rough. It was a very different matter; the chemist might perhaps think she was some little wild girl and refuse to give her the medicine. She looked at the label on the bottle to see his name: Jabez Wrench, High Street, Dinham. She had been to his shop with Mrs Fotheringham, and she remembered Mr Wrench. He was a white-faced man with red hair, and he smiled a great deal. "I shall say I come from Paradise Court," said Iris to herself, "and then he'll know it's all right."

It was not difficult to find the way when she left the fields, for the road led straight into the High Street of Dinham, where the chemist's shop was. Iris entered it rather shyly, for her first excitement was a good deal sobered; there was Mr Wrench behind the counter with his red head bent over a pestle and mortar; he hardly looked up as Iris presented the bottle. "Who's it for?" he asked shortly, without ceasing his occupation.

"It's for Mrs Moore's baby," said Iris; and added after a pause, "I come from Paradise Court."

It was wonderful to see how Mr Wrench's voice and manner altered at once. He looked up, bowed, and puckered his white face into the smile which Iris remembered.

"I beg pardon," he murmured, "I did not for the moment recognise—Shall we have the pleasure of sending the medicine?"

But this Iris hastily refused, and in a few moments she left the shop in triumph with a bottle of Roche's embrocation neatly done up in white paper and sealing-wax. Whether, however, she was too much uplifted in spirit to see where she was going, or whether the place looked different now to when seen out of a carriage window, she did a very foolish thing, for instead of turning to the left, as she should have done, she turned to the right, and walked on some distance without noticing her mistake. But when at length she arrived at a little grey church, she stopped in dismay: "I know," she said to herself, "that I didn't pass a church; I must be going the wrong way." To her horror there now sounded from the church clock the hour of five. How late it was! There would hardly be time to get home and change her frock before her godmother missed her. How angry she would be! What dreadful things she would say, and how terrible she would look! If only it were possible to get back in time! She was just turning hastily to retrace her steps, when towards her, trotting briskly along with head erect, came a donkey drawing a small cart, and in the cart was a man standing up to drive. Iris stopped and waved her parcel in the air eagerly to attract his attention, for the man was Moore returning from the station, and the donkey was Mrs Fotheringham's donkey, David.

Moore pulled up after a good deal of effort, for David did not wish to stop, and Iris rapidly and excitedly poured forth her story. She mixed up the baby, the medicine, the lateness of the hour, and how she turned the wrong way, in a manner which might have puzzled the quickest brain; but Moore did not show any surprise. That would come later when he had arranged his ideas a little; at present his face was perfectly stolid as he said:

"You'd best git up and ride home, missie. David'll take you back quicker nor you can walk, now his head's this way."

Iris looked longingly at the cart. She really was a little tired now, and very much afraid of her godmother's anger, and besides, the drive itself would be most delightful. She would not have hesitated a moment, but she remembered Mrs Fotheringham's injunction about talking to Moore and the servants.

"But I needn't say much to him," she concluded, and the next minute she had taken the rough brown hand Moore held out to her, and clambered over the side of the cart. David, who had laid back one long furry ear as though listening to the conversation, now pricked it forward again and started off. Seated on the rough plank, which shook and rattled with every movement of the cart, Iris felt in the best possible spirits. This was indeed a pleasant way of travelling, and how wonderfully superior to the stuffy comfort of Mrs Fotheringham's well-cushioned brougham! The Dinham road was full of new beauties seen in this manner; the evening breeze was soft and cool, and from some of the fields came the sweet smell of hay as they passed. There was plenty of variety, too, in the bumps and jolts of the springless cart, Moore's way of driving was new and attractive, and David's paces had at least the merit of unexpectedness. Sometimes, after trotting gallantly along for some minutes with uplifted crest, he brought himself up to a sudden and determined walk; then Moore would hurl himself forward in the cart with an energetic stamp, and growl out a number of strange and injurious remarks, of which Iris only heard the first three:

"You David! What are you up to? Git along with you!" The rest died away in a hoarse murmur as David quickened his movements. Iris enjoyed it all thoroughly, and sat holding on with both hands to the plank in the midst of the parcels, with a wide grin of pleasure on her face. The Dinham road was very quiet, and there were few people about; but as they approached Paradise Court an open carriage with a pair of fine chestnut horses drove rapidly by, and David, as was his custom on such occasions, drew up and stood quite still while it passed, in spite of Moore's utmost exertions.

"Who was that lady in the carriage?" asked Iris, for she saw Moore touch his cap. "I think I've seen her before."

"Very like, missie," answered Moore; "that was Lady Dacre from the Towers yonder."

He turned into the stable-yard, helped Iris carefully down, and said slowly, as though he were continuing a previous speech:

"And I take it main kind of yer, missie, to have fetched the stuff for the little un."

To her relief Iris found that it was only half-past five, and that her godmother had not missed her from the house. The great adventure seemed likely to remain undiscovered, and she went to bed feeling glad she had fetched the medicine, though a little ashamed of keeping it a secret. She had no fear, however, that her disobedience would have any uncomfortable results; though in this she was mistaken, as is often the case when we judge of things too hastily. For the very next afternoon, while she was reading aloud to Mrs Fotheringham, the door opened and the maid-servant announced a visitor—Lady Dacre.

The name struck a chill to Iris's very heart. She retired modestly to a corner of the room and bent her face over her book. Had Lady Dacre recognised her yesterday? Would she say anything about it if she had? Could anything be more unlucky? She sat and trembled as she turned these things over in her mind, and listened anxiously to the conversation, but at present it did not approach any dangerous subject. The ladies were discussing the weather, the want of rain, the new vicar, Lady Dacre's rheumatism, and the unreasonable behaviour of Miss Munnion. So far all was safe. How would it do to slip out of the room while they were so busily engaged? Iris got up and moved cautiously towards the door, but, unfortunately, she was so occupied in trying to tread very softly that she forgot the book in her hand, and it slid to the floor with a loud thump. The conversation stopped, and Lady Dacre turned her good-natured face in the direction of the noise. She was a nice-looking pink-faced old lady, with silver hair, and a cozy black satin bonnet.

"So you have your little god-daughter with you still?" she said to Mrs Fotheringham. "Ah, I recollect we met yesterday in the Dinham Road."

Iris looked beseechingly at her, but she only nodded and smiled comfortably.

"In the Dinham Road!" repeated Mrs Fotheringham, "what were you doing in the Dinham Road alone, Iris?"

"Oh, she wasn't alone," said Lady Dacre kindly, "she had a gallant steed and a charioteer to take care of her. She was coming along in very fine style. I remember thinking, as I saw her, what a capital thing it was to be twelve years old."

She laughed, and got up as she spoke to go away, perfectly unconscious of poor Iris's despair.

As her guest left the room Mrs Fotheringham's darkest frown gathered on her forehead.

"Did you meet Lady Dacre yesterday?" she asked, and then added coldly, "Perhaps it was one of Moore's daughters she mistook for you."

For a brief moment the possibility of taking advantage of this idea darted through Iris's mind, but she let it go, and answered faintly:

"I did meet her."

"Where were you, and with whom?"

When her godmother spoke so very distinctly Iris knew how angry she was, and it was dreadfully difficult to answer at first. Presently, however, gathering courage she lifted her head and said almost defiantly:

"In the donkey-cart with Moore."

"Did you drive to Dinham with him?"

"No."

"How did you get there?"

"I ran across the fields."

"And with what purpose beside that of disobeying me?"

"To fetch—" Iris stopped; she was approaching the fatal forbidden subject.

"To fetch what?"

"Medicine."

"Don't tell me untruths," said Mrs Fotheringham still more icily; "what could you want medicine for?"

"I'm telling the truth," said Iris indignantly; "it was for—"

"Well, well, well," said Mrs Fotheringham impatiently, "for—"

"Moore's baby," finished Iris, almost in a whisper.

"Now," exclaimed Mrs Fotheringham, falling back in her chair, "may Heaven grant me patience!" She remained leaning back in a flattened state for so long that Iris wondered if she were ill or going to faint; but just as she determined to call the maid her godmother raised herself into her usual erect position and beckoned.

"Come here," she said, "I've something to tell you. Sit down."

Iris sat down, feeling rather frightened, but yet as though the worst were over; at any rate she had nothing more to confess.

"I invited you here," began Mrs Fotheringham, speaking very slowly and impressively, "with a certain object in view, and that was that I might judge whether it would be possible to offer to adopt you altogether. Had I done so it would have been an untold advantage to you in many ways, and a great relief to your parents, for your future would have been provided for. You have plainly shown me, however, that it would be impossible to have you here. You have shown selfish disregard for my comfort, disobedience, and low vulgar tastes. This last escapade has decided me. Your chance is over."

"What chance?" asked Iris, who had not altogether grasped her meaning.

"Your chance of living here at Paradise Court, and of being rich, instead of going back to Albert Street, where you will always be miserably poor, and have to work for your living."

"Oh, but anyhow," said Iris, now quite roused, "I couldn't possibly do that. I mean, I couldn't live here even if you liked me."

"Why not?"

"Why, of course I couldn't. How could I possibly leave father and mother and the others? They wouldn't like it either."

"You like Albert Street better than this, I suppose," said Mrs Fotheringham coldly.

"Oh, dear, yes—much. As long as the others are there."

"You won't like it best always," said Mrs Fotheringham. "There will come a time when you'll remember that you've missed a chance. Why, you foolish child," she continued, speaking more earnestly and with a tone of half pity, "you don't know what money can do. It can do everything. If you are cold it can warm you, if you are dull it can amuse you, if you are hungry it can feed you, if you are insignificant it can make you a power in the world. It can bring people to your feet, and make them serve you."

"But not love you," said Iris quickly.

"Pooh!" said Mrs Fotheringham.

She hardly spoke again for the rest of the evening, but remained deep in thought, from which Iris did not dare to rouse her by any question. The next day had been arranged for her return home, and when everything was ready, and the carriage waiting at the door to take her to the station, she went to say farewell to her godmother and Paradise Court. She found her sitting in the verandah, with the parrot on a stand close by, and there was such a lonely look about her that for a moment Iris felt sorry.

"Good-bye, godmother," she said gently.

"Ah, you're going," said Mrs Fotheringham, holding out a hard white hand; then looking at her sharply:

"Are you glad to go?"

"I've enjoyed myself very much," said Iris politely.

"But you like Albert Street better?"

"Well, you see, the others are all there." She could not help smiling a little as she thought how the "others" would all be at the station to meet her, and how they would laugh, and talk, and wave things, and kiss her, and how much she would have to tell them.

"I'll give you a proverb to take back with you," said Mrs Fotheringham after a moment's pause. "Try and remember it. 'When Poverty comes in at the door, Love flies out of the window.' There never was a truer word spoken."

She leant back in her chair. The interview was ended. Iris's visit to Paradise Court was over.

But not the memory of it, that dwelt freshly in her mind for years; and when Susie and Dottie demanded again and again to be told how the duck sat under the bee-hive, or how Iris had driven from Dinham in the donkey-cart, the whole place came before her like a brightly painted picture. And in the picture were two things which it pleased her most to look at and remember—Miss Munnion's face when she had kissed her at the gate, and Moore's when he thanked her for fetching the "stuff for the little un,"—these always stood out clearly, even when the background of Paradise Court became dim and indistinct. Neither were her godmother's parting words and her proverb forgotten. Sometimes in after years, when Iris came to know what poverty really means, and when difficulties and troubles rose in Albert Street which a little more money would have relieved, she thought of them mournfully. Poverty had indeed come in at the door, and it might have been in her power to keep it out. She could not do that now, she had missed her "chance," as Mrs Fotheringham had said; but there still remained one other thing—Love should not fly out of the window. And he never did. Many hands, some of them small and weak, held him fast in 29 Albert Street, and he was always to be found there, though he might hide himself for a time.

"After all," said Iris to herself, "there are flowers here as well as in Paradise Court!"

And so there were. There is a crop that flourishes sometimes better in the hard soil of poverty and labour than where beauty, culture, art, and all that wealth can produce spread their soft influences. These are the flowers called patience, unselfishness, simplicity, love. They grow best, not where life is most pleasant to the senses, but where cold winds often blow roughly and outward things are ugly and poor.

"Nothing is sweeter than love, nothing more courageous, nothing higher, nothing wider, nothing more pleasant, nothing fuller nor better in heaven and earth."—Thomas a Kempis.

THE END.