She flew away into a tiny little room of her own, which opened into the night-nursery.

“Susan,” she called out, “will you please help me to put on my after-dinner frock?”

“You have only a white dress to wear this evening, miss; your new black one has not come home yet.”

“A white one will be all right,” replied Iris.

“Oh, dear me, miss! and your poor mother only a week dead.”

“I wish, Susan, you would not talk of mother as dead,” answered Iris.  “I don’t think of her like that a bit.  She is in Heaven; she has gone up the golden stairs, and she is quite well and ever so happy, and she won’t mind my wearing a white dress, more particular if I want to comfort father.  Please help me on with it and then brush out my hair.”

Iris had lovely hair—­it was of a deep, rich chestnut, and it curled and curled, and waved and waved in rich profusion down her back.  When Susan had brushed it, and taken the tangles out, it shone like burnished gold.  Her pretty white frock was speedily put on, and she ran out of her little room to join Apollo, who, in his black velvet suit, looked very picturesque and handsome.

Not long afterwards the little pair, taking each other’s hands, ran down the broad, white marble stairs and entered the big dining room.  They looked almost lost in the distance when they first appeared, for the table at which Mr. Delaney and Mrs. Dolman sat was far away in a bay window at the other end of the stately apartment.

“Hullo, children! so there you are!” called their father’s voice to them.  He had never been better pleased to see them in all his life, and the note of welcome in his tones found an answering echo in Iris’ loving little heart.

They both tripped eagerly up the room and placed themselves one on each side of him, while Iris slipped her hand into his.

“Well, my chicks, I am right glad to see you,” he said.

“Perhaps, David, you will remember how disgracefully late it is,” said Mrs. Dolman.  “Children, I must frankly say that I am not pleased to see you.  What are you doing up at this hour?”

“We have come to keep father company,” said Apollo, fixing his flashing black eyes, with a distinctly adverse expression in them, on his aunt’s face.

“In my day,” continued Aunt Jane complacently, helping herself to strawberries, “the motto was:  ’Little boys should be seen and not heard.’  To-night, of course, I make allowances; but things will be different presently.  David, you surely are not giving those children wine?”

“Oh, they generally have a little sip each from my port,” said Mr. Delaney; “it does not do them any harm.”

“You may inculcate a taste,” said Mrs. Dolman, in a very solemn voice.  “In consequence of that little sip, which appears so innocent, those children may grow up drunkards.  Early impressions!  Well, all I can say is this—­when they come to live at the Rectory they will have to be teetotalers.  In my house we are all teetotalers.  My husband and I both think that we cannot have proper influence on the parishioners unless we do ourselves what we urge them to do.”