the darkest hours. But, Iris, I want you to promise me one thing--I
want you, my little girl, to be a mother to the others."

"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."

"Kiss me, Iris."