She was also the most gentle and the most thoughtful. She took most
after her beautiful mother, and thought more than any of the others of
the peculiar names after which they were all called.

On a certain day in the first week of a particularly hot and lovely
June, Iris, who had been in the house for some time, came slowly out,
swinging her large muslin hat on her arm. Her face looked paler than
usual, and somewhat thoughtful.

"Here you are at last, Iris," called out Diana, in her brisk voice,
"and not a moment too soon. I have just found a poor innocent dead on
the walk; you must come and look at it at once."

On hearing these words, the gloom left Iris' face as if by magic.

"Where is it?" she asked. "I hope you did not tread on it, Diana."

"No; but Puff-Ball did," answered Diana. "Don't blame him, please,
Iris; he is only a puppy and always up to mischief. He took the poor
innocent in his mouth and shook it; but I think it was quite deaded
before that."

"Then, if it is dead, it must be buried," said Iris solemnly. "Bring
it into the arbor, and let us think what kind of funeral we will give
it."

"Why not into the dead-house at once?" queried Diana.

"No; the arbor will do for the present."