A Little Mother to the Others | Page 6

and her mother gazed solemnly at her,
waiting for her to speak.
"After all," thought Iris, "to satisfy the longing in mother's eyes is the
first thing of all. I will promise, cost what it may."
"Yes," she said; then softly, "I will, mother; I will be a mother to the
others."
"Kiss me, Iris."
The little girl threw her arms round her mother's neck; their lips met in
a long embrace.
"Darling, you understand? I am satisfied with your promise, and I am
tired."
"Must I go away, mother? May not I stay very quietly with you? Can
you not sleep if I am in the room?"
"I would rather you left me now. I can sleep better when no one is by.
Ring the bell for Fortune as you go. She will come and make me
comfortable. Yes; I am very tired."
"One moment first, mummy--you have not told me yet when you are
going on the journey."
"The day is not quite fixed, Iris, although it is--yes, it is nearly so."
"And you have not said where you are going, mother. I should like to
tell the others."

But Mrs. Delaney had closed her eyes, and did not make any reply.
CHAPTER II.
A LITTLE MOTHER TO THE OTHERS.
That night the children's young mother went on her journey. The
summons for her to go came unexpectedly, as it often does in the end.
She had not even time to say good-by to the children, nor to her
husband, only just a brief moment to look, with startled eyes, at the
wonderful face of the angel who had come to fetch her, and then with a
smile of bliss to let him clasp her in his arms and feel his strong wings
round her, and then she was away, beyond the lovely house and the
beautiful garden, and the children sleeping quietly in their beds, and the
husband who was slumbering by her side--beyond the tall trees and the
peaks of the highest mountains, beyond the stars themselves, until
finally she entered the portals of a home that is everlasting, and found
herself in a land where the flowers do not fade.
In the morning the children were told that their mother was dead. They
all cried, and everyone thought it dreadfully sad, except Iris, who knew
better. It was Fortune who brought in the news to the children--they
had just gone into the day-nursery at the time.
Fortune was a stern woman, somewhat over fifty years of age. She was
American by birth, and had lived with Mrs. Delaney since Iris was born.
Mrs. Delaney was also American, which may have accounted for some
of her bright fancies, and quiet, yet sweet and quick ways. Fortune was
very fond of the children after her fashion, which was, however, as a
rule, somewhat severe and exacting. But to-day, in her bitter grief, she
sank down on the nearest chair, and allowed them all to crowd round
her, and cried bitterly, and took little Orion in her arms and kissed him
and petted him, and begged of each child to forgive her for ever having
been cross or disagreeable, and promised, as well and as heartily as she
could, never to transgress again in that manner as long as she lived.
While the others were sobbing and crying round Fortune, Iris stood
silent.

"Where is father?" she said at last, in a very quiet but determined voice.
Fortune glanced round at the grave little girl in some wonder.
"Miss Iris," she said, "you are not even crying."
"What do tears matter?" answered Iris. "Please, Fortune, where is father?
I should like to go to him."
"He is locked up in his study, darling, and could not possibly see you
nor anyone else. He is quite stunned, master is, and no wonder. You
cannot go to him at present, Miss Iris."
Iris did not say another word, but she looked more grave and more
thoughtful than ever. After a long pause she sat down in her own little
chair near the open window. It was a very lovely day, just as beautiful
as the one which had preceded it. As the child sat by the window, and
the soft, sweet breeze fanned her pale cheeks, an indescribable longing
came over her. No one was particularly noticing her. She crept softly
out of the room, ran down some passages, and at last found herself once
more mounting the turret stairs to the tower. A moment later she had
entered the octagon room where she and her mother had talked together
on the previous day. The windows were wide open, the pretty room
looked just as usual, but mother's sofa was vacant. Iris went straight
over to one of the open windows, knelt