In the morning the children were told that their mother was dead.  They all cried, and everyone thought it dreadfully sad, except Iris, who knew better.  It was Fortune who brought in the news to the children—­they had just gone into the day-nursery at the time.

Fortune was a stern woman, somewhat over fifty years of age.  She was American by birth, and had lived with Mrs. Delaney since Iris was born.  Mrs. Delaney was also American, which may have accounted for some of her bright fancies, and quiet, yet sweet and quick ways.  Fortune was very fond of the children after her fashion, which was, however, as a rule, somewhat severe and exacting.  But to-day, in her bitter grief, she sank down on the nearest chair, and allowed them all to crowd round her, and cried bitterly, and took little Orion in her arms and kissed him and petted him, and begged of each child to forgive her for ever having been cross or disagreeable, and promised, as well and as heartily as she could, never to transgress again in that manner as long as she lived.

While the others were sobbing and crying round Fortune, Iris stood silent.

“Where is father?” she said at last, in a very quiet but determined voice.

Fortune glanced round at the grave little girl in some wonder.

“Miss Iris,” she said, “you are not even crying.”

“What do tears matter?” answered Iris.  “Please, Fortune, where is father?  I should like to go to him.”

“He is locked up in his study, darling, and could not possibly see you nor anyone else.  He is quite stunned, master is, and no wonder.  You cannot go to him at present, Miss Iris.”

Iris did not say another word, but she looked more grave and more thoughtful than ever.  After a long pause she sat down in her own little chair near the open window.  It was a very lovely day, just as beautiful as the one which had preceded it.  As the child sat by the window, and the soft, sweet breeze fanned her pale cheeks, an indescribable longing came over her.  No one was particularly noticing her.  She crept softly out of the room, ran down some passages, and at last found herself once more mounting the turret stairs to the tower.  A moment later she had entered the octagon room where she and her mother had talked together on the previous day.  The windows were wide open, the pretty room looked just as usual, but mother’s sofa was vacant.  Iris went straight over to one of the open windows, knelt down, and put her little elbows on the ledge.

“Yes, mother,” she said, speaking aloud and looking full up at the bright blue sky, “I promise you.  I promised you yesterday, but I make a fresh, very, very solemn promise to-day.  Yes, I will be a mother to the others; I will try never to think of myself; I will remember, mother darling, exactly what you want me to do.  I will try to be beautiful, to be a little messenger of the gods, as you sometimes said I might be, and to be