"Here's a poor affair!"

"Do you mean to tell me, you stupid and vexing child," said Mrs Fotheringham, "that you woke me up merely to relate this nonsense?"

Iris had nothing to say, but she thought it unkind of Miss Munnion to murmur in the background:

"Most thoughtless!"

"If anything of this nature occurs again," said Mrs Fotheringham severely, "I shall send you home at once. Other failings I can excuse, but selfish thoughtlessness is a thing I abhor. There, go away. No, Miss Munnion, you needn't read any more, I shall not be able to sleep now. My nerves are quite shaken."

Iris wandered disconsolately out into the garden. Everything looked as bright and gay as ever, but she felt sad. It was hard to be disgraced and scolded as though she had done something wrong, when she had only made a mistake. "I really _did_ think they would like to hear about the duck," she said to herself; "and how _could_ I know she was asleep?"

How they would have liked it at home! How often mother was waked up suddenly by the noise of the children, or the boys rushing in to ask her something! Her patient face came before Iris now, full of the gentleness and love which were always there as a matter of course, because she was "mother." There was something wanting at Paradise Court--something that not all its radiant flowers, and pleasant luxurious rooms, and daintily prepared meals could supply.

"After all," said Iris, "it doesn't seem to make people kinder to have so many nice things as my G.o.dmother."

She came to this conclusion with a sigh, and then, hearing the stable clock strike five, remembered that it was post time. Perhaps there would be a letter from home. At any rate she would run down to the lodge and meet the postman. It was such a cheering thought that she felt almost happy again, and ran along whistling and swinging her straw-hat in her hand. The drive was long and very winding, so that she did not at first perceive that there was someone in front of her who seemed to be bound on the same errand; when she did so, however, she had no difficulty in recognising the figure, which had a lop-sided movement like a bird with one wing. It was Miss Munnion. She was evidently in great haste, and walking, or rather running faster than Iris had ever seen her--so fast, indeed, that she was soon hidden in a sudden turn of the road, and was next visible coming back with the letters in her hand.

Walking slowly now, she was reading an open one, and stopped now and then to study it more attentively. Iris ran up to her with the eager question, "Is there one for me?" on her lips; but when she saw Miss Munnion's face she checked herself. For the frozen little countenance had thawed, the features worked and twisted about strangely, and the dull eyes were full of tears.

"What's the matter?" said Iris bluntly. Miss Munnion looked up; she was completely altered in voice and manner; her hands trembled, her little lace head-dress was crooked; she was evidently deeply troubled.

"It's my sister Diana," she said--"my only sister. She is dangerously ill. She's been asking for me."

"Where is she?" asked Iris.

"Oh, that's the worst of it!" cried Miss Munnion. "It's all the way to Sunderland, right up in the north. Oh, what shall I do?"

"Of course you must go to her," said Iris, with the confidence of youth.

"But," said poor Miss Munnion, looking at the child without a spark of hope in her eyes, but a great longing for help and advice, "there's Mrs Fotheringham. She'll disapprove, she so dislikes being worried. When I came she told me she hoped I had no relations to unsettle me. And I haven't. I haven't a soul in the world that cares for me except Diana.

And she was always so strong. How could I tell she would fall ill?"

"Perhaps you wouldn't be gone long," suggested Iris, "and I could read to G.o.dmother."

"I'm so afraid," said Miss Munnion, wiping her eyes meekly, "that Mrs Fotheringham will dismiss me if I go, and I can't afford to lose the situation--I really can't. And it's such an expensive journey to Sunderland. And yet, there's Diana; she comes before everything, and it cuts me to the heart to think of her asking for me."

Iris stood looking at her gravely. She felt very sorry, but also a little contemptuous. Of course Diana ought to come before everything, and yet Miss Munnion did not seem able to make up her mind to go to her.

"Well," she said, "you can't go to Sunderland and stay here too."

"Very true," murmured Miss Munnion. She did not mean anything by these words, but they were so habitual that she could not help using them.

"Then you'd better come straight to my G.o.dmother and tell her," said Iris, "if you _mean_ to go."

"Oh, of course I mean to go," said Miss Munnion reproachfully. "How could I forsake Diana when she wants me?"

"Well, then, there's no use in thinking of anything else," said Iris.

It was an evident relief to Miss Munnion to be taken in hand firmly even by a child. Years of dependence on the whims and fancies of others had deprived her of what little decision and power of judgment she had possessed. She could hardly call her mind her own, so how could she make it up on any point?

Yet all through her troubled and dreary life one feeling had remained alive and warm--affection for her sister Diana. "Many waters cannot quench love," and its flame still burned bright and clear in Miss Munnion's heart.

"Although she really is very silly," thought Iris, as they turned back together towards the house, "there's something I like about her after all. She's much nicer than my G.o.dmother."

She hurried Miss Munnion along as fast as she could, almost as though it were Susie or Dottie she had in charge; and indeed the poor lady was so nervous at the prospect of Mrs Fotheringham that she was as helpless as a child. She stumbled along, falling over her gown at every step, dropping her letters, or her spectacles, or her pocket handkerchief, and uttering broken sentences about her sister Diana. Iris picked up these things again and again, and at last carried them herself, and so brought Miss Munnion triumphantly, but in a breathless condition, to the door of the house.

"Now," she said, "you'd better take the letters in to my G.o.dmother and tell her all about it at once. I'll wait here till you come back."

She had not to wait long, for Miss Munnion reappeared in less than five minutes shaking her head mournfully.

"It's just as I thought it would be," she said. "Mrs Fotheringham thinks it's very unreasonable of me to want to go to Diana."

"Did you tell her she was ill?" asked Iris.

"Yes, and she said she supposed there were doctors in Sunderland who would do her more good than I should. She doesn't seem to be able to understand why I should want to go. She says it's fussy."

"Did you tell her that I would read to her while you are gone?" asked Iris.

"No, my dear, I couldn't get that in; she's so very impetuous. And besides, the first thing she said was:--

"'Of course you'll understand, Miss Munnion, that if you feel obliged to go to Sunderland our connection is at an end.' So I shall lose the situation after all," ended Miss Munnion with a sigh.

Iris stood in silent thought for a moment.

"Did she look _very_ angry?" she said at length.

"Well, yes," said Miss Munnion. "I must say she seemed completely upset. I think she was vexed to start with, because, you know, she didn't get her nap."

"You stop here a minute," said Iris suddenly, and ran into the house.

She pushed open the door of Mrs Fotheringham's sitting-room gently and peeped in. Her G.o.dmother was sitting very upright in her high-backed chair, a frown on her brow, and the parrot on her shoulder. She looked so alarming that Iris felt almost inclined to run away again, but the old lady turned her head suddenly and saw her.

"Well," she said, with an air of sarcastic resignation, "what do _you_ want? Any more ducks under bee-hives, or have _you_ got a sick sister too?"

"Please, G.o.dmother," said Iris, with a great effort, "I want you to let me read to you while Miss Munnion is away."

"Oh!" said Mrs Fotheringham.

She stared silently at Iris for a moment, then resumed.

"I've no doubt it would be an immense pleasure to listen to you if you read like most children of your age. Anything more?"

Iris became scarlet under her G.o.dmother's fixed gaze, for both she and the parrot seemed to be chuckling silently at her confusion. But she thought of Diana, and of poor Miss Munnion waiting outside, and managed to gasp out:

"Please let Miss Munnion come back."

"She hasn't gone yet that I know of," replied Mrs Fotheringham, without removing her eyes from the child.

"But she _must_," continued Iris, "because of Diana."

"Well, I must say, you are a most extraordinary child," said the old lady, after another pause, "with your ducks and your Dianas! What is it to you, I should like to know, whether Miss Munnion goes or stays? It doesn't interfere with _your_ comfort, I suppose."