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.

"The _darling_!" said the little girl tenderly. "I loved Rub-a-Dub so
much; I love him still. I do hope Iris will think him 'portant enough