Iris told her story very lamely, and conscious of an unsympathetic audience. The very parrot ruffled up his feathers and turned his glistening eye upon his mistress when it was over, as though he shrugged his shoulders and said: "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 godmother."