"A mother to the others?" said Iris, half aloud. She paused and did not speak at all for a moment, her imagination was very busy. She thought of all the creatures to whom she was already a mother, not only her own dear pets—the mice in their cages, the silk-worms, the three dogs, the stray cat, the pet Persian cat, the green frogs, the poor innocents, as the children called worms—but in addition to these, all creatures that suffered in the animal kingdom, all flowers that were about to fade, all sad things that seemed to need care and comfort. But up to the present she had never thought of the other children except as her equals. Apollo was only a year younger than herself, and in some ways braver and stouter and more fearless; and Orion and Diana were something like their names—very bright and even fierce at times. She, after all, was the gentlest of the party, and she was very young—not more than ten years of age. How could she possibly be a mother to the others?
She looked at Mrs. Delaney, and her mother gazed solemnly at her, waiting for her to speak.
"After all," thought Iris, "to satisfy the longing in mother's eyes is the first thing of all. I will promise, cost what it may."
"Yes," she said; then softly, "I will, mother; I will be a mother to the others."
The little girl threw her arms round her mother's neck; their lips met in a long embrace.
"Darling, you understand? I am satisfied with your promise, and I am tired."
"Must I go away, mother? May not I stay very quietly with you? Can you not sleep if I am in the room?"
"I would rather you left me now. I can sleep better when no one is by. Ring the bell for Fortune as you go. She will come and make me comfortable. Yes; I am very tired."
"One moment first, mummy—you have not told me yet when you are going on the journey."