“Let’s go to the garden this very instant,” exclaimed Iris, looking at her brother.

They clasped each other’s hands and, flying along the well-remembered haunts, soon reached their favorite garden.

“Oh, Apollo!  I live; I breathe again,” said Iris, panting as she spoke.  “Oh, I am happy once more!”

“Let us see if anything has been injured while we were away,” said Apollo.  “Oh, I wonder if anybody has watered our pretty gardens.  I planted a lot of mignonette the day before I went away.  I wonder if it has come up.”

The children wandered about the garden.  The dead-house was now empty; the four little gardens looked sadly the worse for want of watering and general looking after.  The cemetery, however, looked much as usual; so also did the greenswards of grass, the roses, the different summer flowers; and finally Iris and Apollo visited the little summer-house, and seated themselves on their own chairs.

“The garden has not run away,” said Apollo.  “That’s a comfort.  I’m real glad of that.”

“It’s exactly like the garden of Eden,” said Iris, panting as she spoke.  “I don’t think anybody,” she continued, “could be naughty in this garden.”

Apollo kicked his legs in a somewhat impatient manner.

“I feel dreadfully hungry, Iris,” he said.  “Suppose we go to the house now and have some supper.”

“Who is that coming down the walk?” said Iris.

It was dusk by this time, and in the little summer-house all was dark; but Iris, as she spoke, sprang to her feet, and the next moment found herself clasped in Fortune’s motherly arms.

“My darling!” said the woman.  “Why, it drives me near mad to see you again.  And now, what in the world is up with the two of you, and where are the others?  There’s an elderly gentleman—­a clergyman—­in the house, and he said I was to look for you here, and that you were going to spend the night.  What does it mean, Iris?  Oh, my dear!  I can’t see your face, for it is too dark; but you are very light.  Why, you are no weight at all, my honey.”

“I expect I’m rather worn out,” replied Iris, in her old-fashioned tone.  “You know, Fortune, when mother went away she told me to be a mother to the others, and—­oh, Fortune, Fortune!  I have failed, I have failed.”

Iris’ little arms were clasped tightly round her old nurse’s neck; her face was hidden against her bosom; her heavy sobs came thick and fast.

“Why, my poor dear, you are exactly like a feather,” said Fortune; “it aint to be expected that a young thing like you could be a mother.  But what’s gone wrong, dearie? what’s gone wrong?”

“They are lost.  That’s what has gone wrong,” said Iris.  “Orion and Diana are lost, Fortune.”

“Sakes alive, child! stand up and speak proper,” said Fortune.  “Your little brother and sister lost!  Impossible; you are joking me, Iris, and that aint fair, seeing I was with you since you drew the breath of life.”