Apollo ran off at once.  He brought back a good large leaf of strawberries, and Iris divided them into four portions.  Diana and Orion, seated on their little chairs, ate theirs with much gusto, and just as happily as if mother had not gone away; but as to Iris, notwithstanding her brave words and her determination not to think of herself, the strawberries tasted like wood in her mouth.  There was also a great lump in her throat, and a feeling of depression was making itself felt more and more, moment by moment.

Apollo sat down beside his sister, and glanced from time to time into her face.

“I cannot think why I don’t really care for the strawberries to-day,” he said suddenly.  “I—­” His lips trembled.  “Iris,” he said, gazing harder than ever at his sister, “you have got such a queer look on your face.

“Don’t notice it, please, Apollo,” answered Iris.

“I wish you would cry,” said the boy.  “When Fortune came in and told us the—­the dreadful news, we all cried and we kissed her, and she cried and she said she was sorry she had ever been unkind to us; but I remember, Iris, you did not shed one tear, and you—­you always seemed to love mother the best of us all.”

“And I love her still the best,” said Iris, in a soft voice; “but, Apollo, I have something else to do.”  And then she added, lowering her tones, “You know, I can’t be sorry about mother herself.  I can only be glad about her.”

“Glad about mother!  Glad that she is dead!” said the boy.

“Oh, I don’t think about that part,” said Iris.  “She is not dead—­not really.  She is only away up above the stars and the blue sky, and she will never have any more suffering, and she will always be as happy as happy can be, and sometime or other, Apollo, I think she will be able to come back; and, if she can, I am sure she will.  Yes, I am quite sure she will.”

“If she comes back we shall see her,” said Apollo; “but she can’t come back, Iris.  Dead people can’t come back.”

“Oh, please, don’t call her that,” said Iris, with a note of great pain in her voice.

“But Fortune says that mother is dead, just like anybody else, and in a few days she will be put into the ground.  Oh, Iris!  I am frightened when I think of it.  Mother was so lovely, and to think of their putting her into the ground in a box just like—­like we put the poor innocent and the other creatures, and if that is the case she can never come back—­never, never, never!”

The little boy buried his black head of curling hair on his sister’s knee, and gave vent to a great burst of tears.