er of a child as big as Iris.
She had one of the most beautiful faces God ever gave to anybody. It
was not so much that her features were perfect, but they were full of
light, full of soul, and such a very loving expression beamed in her
eyes that no man, woman, or child ever looked at her without feeling
the best in their natures coming immediately to the surface.

As to little Iris, her feelings for her mother were quite beyond any
words to express. She ran up to her now and knelt by her side.

"Kiss me, Iris," said Mrs. Delaney.

Iris put up her soft, rosebud lips; they met the equally soft lips of
the mother.

"You are much better, mummy; are you not?" said the child, in an
eager, half-passionate whisper.

"I have had a long sleep, darling, and I am rested," said Mrs.
Delaney. "I told Fortune to call you. Father is away for the day. I
thought we could have half an hour uninterrupted."

"How beautiful, mother! It is the most delightful thing in all the
world to be alone with you, mummy."

"Well, bring your little chair and sit near me, Iris. Fortune will
bring in tea in a moment, and you can pour it out. You shall have tea
with me, if you wish it, darling."

Iris gave a sigh of rapture; she was too happy almost for words. This
was almost invariably the case when she found herself in her mother's
presence. When with her mother she was quiet and seldom spoke a great
deal. In the garden with the other children Iris was the one who
chattered most, but with her mother her words were always few. She
felt herself then to be more or less in a listening attitude. She
listened for the words which dropped from those gentle lips; she was
always on the lookout for the love-light which filled the soft brown
eyes.

At that moment the old servant, Fortune, brought in the tea on a
pretty tray and laid it on a small table near Mrs. Delaney. Then Iris
got up, and with an important air poured it out and brought a cup,
nicely prepared, to her mother.

Mrs. Delaney sipped her tea and looked from time to time at her little
daughter. When she did so, Iris devoured her with her anxious eyes.

"No," she said to herself, "mother does not look ill--not even _very_
tired. She is not like anybody else, and that is why--why she wears
that wonderful, almost holy expression. Sometimes I wish she did not,
but I would not change her, not for all the world."

Iris' heart grew quiet. Her cup of bliss was quite full. She scarcely
touched