"Well, you shall go into Beaminster to-morrow and buy another mouse," said Mr. Delaney.
Diana gazed at him with grave, wondering black eyes.
"That would not be Rub-a-Dub," she said; then she buried her little, fat face on his shoulder and sobs shook her frame.
"Evangeline would have known exactly what to say to the child," muttered the father, in a fit of despair. "Come along, little one," he said. "What can't be cured must be endured, you know. Now, take my hand and I'll race you into the house."
The child gave a wan little smile; but the thought of the mouse lay heavy against her heart.
"May I go back to the garden first?" she said. "I want to put Rub-a-Dub into the dead-house."
"The dead-house, Diana? What do you mean?"
"It is the house where we keep the poor innocents, and all the other creatures what get deaded," said Diana. "We keep them there until Iris has settled whether they are to have a pwivate or a public funeral. Iris does not know yet about Rub-a-Dub. He was quite well this morning. I don't know what he could have died of. Perhaps, father, if you look at him you will be able to tell me."
"Well, let me have a peep," said the man, his mustache twitching as he spoke.
Diana once again unfolded her small handkerchief, in the center of which lay the much shriveled-up mouse.