“And you steal it?”

“Oh, yes; she would make such a fuss if we asked her for some.  We always steal it for public funerals.”

“Well, on this occasion, and to spare your aunt’s feelings, tell Fortune that I desire her to give you some.

“Now, Jane,” continued Mr. Delaney, “as you are here, and as I am here, we may both of us as well witness this ceremony.  The children are fond of doing all honor to their pets, even after the supreme moment of dissolution.  Shall we witness this public funeral?”

Mrs. Dolman looked wonderfully inclined to say “No,” but as her object now was to humor her brother as far as possible, she agreed very unwillingly to wait.

Accordingly he and she began to pace up and down the lovely garden, and soon, in the interest which the sight of the unforgotten playground of her youth excited within her, her brow cleared, and she became pleasant and even talkative.  The two were in the midst of a very interesting conversation, and were pacing up and down not far from the summer-house, when Orion’s clear voice was heard.  “The public funeral is going to begin,” he shouted, “so you had best come along if you want to see it.  If you don’t, Diana and me, and Apollo and Iris—­why, we don’t care.”

“Oh, we’ll come, you rude little body,” said his father, laughing and chuckling as he spoke.  “You mark my words, Jane,” he continued, “you will have a handful with those children.”

“Oh, I’ll manage them,” said Mrs. Dolman.  “I have not lived my thirty-five years for nothing; they certainly need managing, poor little spoilt creatures.”

They both hurried to the cemetery, where Apollo was standing, having dug a grave nearly a foot deep, and large enough to hold a square cardboard box.  He stood leaning on his spade now, his hat pushed off, his handsome little face slightly flushed with the exercise, his eyes full of a sort of gloomy defiance.  But now the funeral procession was coming on apace.  Orion’s mouth was much puffed out because he was blowing vigorously on his Jew’s harp, Diana followed him beating a little drum, and Iris, with long black ribbons fastened to her flowing chestnut locks, was walking behind, carrying the tiny coffin.  Iris, as she walked, rang an old dinner bell in a very impressive manner, and also sang a little dirge to the accompaniment of the bell and the two other children’s music.  These were the words Iris sang: 

    “Ding-a-dong, Rub-a-Dub’s dead;
        Good-by, Rub-a-Dub. 
    Sleep well in your little bed;
        Good-by, Rub-a-Dub.

    “We’ll put a stone at your head and your feet;
        Good-by, Rub-a-Dub. 
    And you shall sleep very sound and sweet;
        Good-by, Rub-a-Dub. 
    And you’ll never know fear any more;
        Little dear;
    Good-by, Rub-a-Dub.”

Iris was a poet on occasions, and she had made up these impressive lines in great haste while the other children were arranging minor details of the funeral.