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

    “And you’ll never know fear any more,
        Little dear;
    Good-by, Rub-a-Dub.”

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

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

“We’ll talk it over this evening,” answered Iris.

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII.

BUT ANN COULD NOT HELP LETTING OUT NOW AND THEN.

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