"Oh, my dear little child! I was not thinking of your lessons. It is your terrible--your terrible loss that fills my mind; that and your want of understanding. Iris, you are ten years old; I am surprised at you." Iris stood, looking very grave and silent, a step or two away. "Please, Miss Stevenson," she said, after a long pause, "don't try to understand us, for I am afraid it would be of no use. Mother talked to me yesterday, and I know quite what to do. Mother asked me to be a mother to the others, so I have no time to cry, nor to think of myself at all. If you will give us a holiday to-day, will you please go away and let us stay together, for I think I can manage the others if I am all alone with them?" Miss Stevenson rose hastily. "I thought you would all have been overwhelmed," she said. "I thought if ever children loved their mother you four did. Oh! how stunned I feel! Yes, I will certainly go--I don't profess to understand any of you." CHAPTER III. THE ARRIVAL OF THE AUNT. About a week after the events related in the last chapter, on a certain lovely day in June, a hired fly might have been seen ascending the steep avenue to Delaney Manor. The fly had only one occupant--a round, roly-poly sort of little woman. She was dressed in deep mourning, and the windows of the fly being wide open, she constantly poked her head out, now to the right and now to the left, to look anxiously and excitedly around her. After gazing at the magnificent view, had anyone been there to look, they might have observed her shaking her head with great solemnity. She had round black eyes, and a rather dark-complexioned face, with a good deal of color in her cheeks. She was stoutly built, but the expression on her countenance was undoubtedly cheerful. Nothing signified gloom about her except her heavy mourning. Her eyes, although shrewd and full of common sense, were also kindly; her lips were very firm; there was a matter-of-fact expression about her whole appearance. "Now, why does David waste all those acres of splendid land?" she muttered angrily to herself. "The whole place, as far as I can see, seems to be laid out in grass. I know perfectly well that this is an agricultural country, and yet, when produce is so precious, what do I see but a lawn here and another lawn there, and not even cows feeding on them. Oh, yes! of course there is the park! The park is right enough, and no one wants to interfere with that. But why should all the land in that direction, and in that direction, and in that direction"--here she put out her head again and looked frantically about her--"why should all that land be devoted to mere ornament? It seems nothing more nor less than a tempting of Providence." Here she suddenly raised her voice. "Driver," she said, "have the goodness to poke up your horse, and to go a little faster. I happen to be in a hurry." "'Orse won't do it, ma'am," was the response. "Steep 'ill this. Can't go no faster."