“Then, if mother is much better off, we ought to have a holiday, same as if it was a birthday; ought we not, Miss Stevenson?” said Diana, puckering up her face and looking, with her keen black eyes, full at her governess.

“You poor little innocents, what is to become of you all?” said Miss Stevenson.

She entered the summer-house as she spoke, sank down on the nearest chair, and burst into tears.  The four children surrounded her.  They none of them felt inclined to cry at that moment.  Orion, after staring at her for some little time, gave her a sharp little tap on her arm.

“What are you crying about?” he said.  “Don’t you think you are rather stupid?”

“You poor innocents!” said Miss Stevenson.

“Please don’t call us that,” said Diana; “that is our name for the worms.  Worms can’t see, you know, and they are not to blame for being only worms, and sometimes they get trodden on; and Iris thought we might call them innocents, and we have always done so since she gave us leave; but we would rather not be called by quite the same name.”

Miss Stevenson hastily dried her eyes.

“You certainly are the most extraordinary little creatures,” she said.  “Don’t you feel anything?”

“It would be horrid selfish to be sorry,” said Diana “Iris says that mother is awfully happy now.”

Miss Stevenson stared at the children as if they were bewitched.

“And we are not to have lessons, Stevie,” said Orion; “that’s settled, isn’t it?”

“Oh, my dear little child!  I was not thinking of your lessons.  It is your terrible—­your terrible loss that fills my mind; that and your want of understanding.  Iris, you are ten years old; I am surprised at you.”

Iris stood, looking very grave and silent, a step or two away.

“Please, Miss Stevenson,” she said, after a long pause, “don’t try to understand us, for I am afraid it would be of no use.  Mother talked to me yesterday, and I know quite what to do.  Mother asked me to be a mother to the others, so I have no time to cry, nor to think of myself at all.  If you will give us a holiday to-day, will you please go away and let us stay together, for I think I can manage the others if I am all alone with them?”

Miss Stevenson rose hastily.

“I thought you would all have been overwhelmed,” she said.  “I thought if ever children loved their mother you four did.  Oh! how stunned I feel!  Yes, I will certainly go—­I don’t profess to understand any of you.”

CHAPTER III.

THE ARRIVAL OF THE AUNT.

About a week after the events related in the last chapter, on a certain lovely day in June, a hired fly might have been seen ascending the steep avenue to Delaney Manor.  The fly had only one occupant—­a round, roly-poly sort of little woman.  She was dressed in deep mourning, and the windows of the fly being wide open, she constantly poked her head out, now to the right and now to the left, to look anxiously and excitedly around her.