At these words, little Diana opened her great, black eyes.

"And you'll never know fear
Any more, little dear,"

she said in a voice of intense satisfaction. Then she looked up at
Fortune, and raised her brow in a puzzled manner.

"I aren't fwightened of G'eased Lightning," she said. A smile broke
over her little face, then the light of reason once more faded, and
she entered the dark region of delirium and danger.

The doctor did all he could and Fortune did all she could, and
presently Aunt Jane appeared on the scene, and insisted on seeing the
child, and shook her head over her and cried a little privately; but,
in spite of all their efforts to get her well again, little Diana
grew weaker, day by day. She did not know Fortune, except at very
rare intervals. Day and night she talked incessantly of her past life,
of the beautiful garden, of the animals, of Rub-a-Dub, and more
especially of Rub-a-Dub's public funeral. She also mentioned Greased
Lightning and Pole Star, and Uncle Ben and the circus; but when she
talked of them her voice changed; it grew high, eager, and excited,
and her little breath panted out of her weary body. She often ended
her delirious talk with a cry of distress.

"Oh, I has fallen," she said, with a sob. "I has fallen from the
wing." Then she would clasp both her hot hands to her aching head, and
moan bitterly.

The doctor was very anxious about her, and Fortune was very sad, and
so was Uncle William, and even Aunt Jane.

The cablegram was sent to father, and they all earnestly hoped that he
was already on his homeward way.

Meanwhile, at the Manor, Iris, Apollo, and Orion had a hard time. It
is true that they were no longer fettered or coerced in any way. Aunt
Jane took scarcely any notice of them, and Uncle William spent most of
his time alone. The three children could come in and out of the house
as they pleased; they could wander about the garden where four used to
play happily; they could visit the old haunts that four used to love;
but because the fourth was now absent, the joy and the mirth of the
old days seemed quite to have left the remaining three.

As time went by, Iris grew whiter and whiter. Often she wandered away
by herself, and flinging herself on the ground, would moan out her
distress.

"Mother, mother," she used to sob, "I have not done what you told me;
I have not been a little mother. Can you ever forgive me? Oh, if Diana
dies, I am certain that I s