it was a lovely summer's night, and as the children ran, orion looked up at the stars.

"why, it's a starful night!" he cried, in a joyful voice, "and there's me. do look at me, di! there i am up in the sky, ever so big and 'portant."

"so you is," said diana, laughing and then checking herself. "is it far to——"

"to where, di?"

"to the garding," said diana; "to the dead-house where rub-a-dub is. let's go and sit on the little bench and see the dead 'uns—let's count 'em; i wonder how many there is!" she stopped suddenly and gazed around her.

"what do you mean?" said orion, in some alarm. "we are nowhere near the garden. don't you know where we are, diana?"

"yes, i do now, course," she answered, with a laugh. "i think i was dweaming; it's my head; it's keer. i want to s'eep awfu'."

"well, here are the fields," said orion; "here's a beautiful green field, and the moon is shining on it. oh, and there's a hole in the hedge; let's creep in."

"let's k'eep in," said diana.

they pushed their way through the hole and found themselves in a clover field. the clover, slightly wet with dew, felt very refreshing to their hot little feet.

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"isn't this 'licious?" said diana. "let's lie down on the g'een g'ass; let's s'eep here; i's awfu' s'eepy."

"it's very near the circus," said orion. "i'm rather frightened for fear uncle ben will find us."

"no, he won't; it's all wight," said diana.

she allowed her little brother to lead her as far as the hedge, and then nothing would persuade her to go any further. down on the damp grass she flung herself, and then next moment was fast asleep.

orion, aged six, did not think it wrong for diana to sleep on the wet grass. the moon shone all over her bare little legs. she folded her arms when she lay down, and now there was not a stir, nor a movement from her.

far away, or at least it seemed far away to little orion, he could see the blinking lights of the town, and when he stood on tiptoe he could also see the lights of the merry-go-rounds and the other accompaniments of the great circus. he knew that he was dreadfully near his tyrants, and he longed beyond words to awaken diana and make her go farther away; but she was asleep—dead tired. he never could master her. there was nothing, therefore, but for him to lie down also, close to her.

accordingly, he flung himself on the grass, laid his head on her shoulder, nestling up close to her for warmth and protection, and in a few moments he had also forgotten his fears, and was calmly living in the blessed land of dreams. the great orion overhead looked down on his tiny namesake, and the little boy dreamt that he was a giant in very truth, and that he and diana were fighting their way through the world.

the children slept, and presently the creatures of the night came out—the owls, and the bats, and the

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night moths—and looked with wonder at the queer little pair lying prone amongst the green clover. thousands of wonderful night noises also began to awaken in all directions—the merry chirp of the cricket, the whir of the bat on its circling flight, the hum of the moths—but the children heard nothing, although the creatures of the night were curious about these strange little beings who, by good rights, ought not to be sharing their kingdom.

at last, just when the first peep of dawn began to tinge the east, little orion opened his eyes and rubbed them hard. with a great rush memory returned to him. he had run away; he had ridden greased lightning and had not fallen from his back; his terrible life in the circus was at an end. uncle ben was nowhere near to chide him. he and diana had got off; but it was true that they had not put a great distance between themselves and uncle ben. perhaps uncle ben, who had promised that he might go away if he did his part well, might change his mind in the morning. it was most important that he and his sister should go farther away as quickly as possible.

accordingly, he proceeded to wake diana. diana was very sound asleep indeed. he could see her face distinctly, for the first faint return of day was spreading a tender glow over it. she did not look pale; there was a hot spot on either cheek—a spot of vivid rose.

"i am cold enough," thought the little fellow, "but diana seems warm. wake up, di; wake up!" he said. "we has runned away, but we has not run far enough. wake up, di, and let's go on."

diana did not stir at all at his first summons. he spoke loudly, looking around him as he did so in

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some terror. a night owl, preparing to go home, was seated on a tree near by. the owl looked at orion and hooted in a very melancholy manner. his voice seemed to say:

"i never saw two greater little fools than you children in all my life."

orion felt rather afraid of the owl. having failed to awaken diana by words, he proceeded to shake her. this device succeeded. she opened her great, big, sleepy eyes and stared around her in bewilderment.

"so you is our little mother now, iris?" she said. "all wight; i's coming."

she sat up on her grassy bed and rubbed her eyes, then stared at orion and burst out laughing.

"what are you laughing at?" said orion. "we are in awful danger here. uncle ben may catch us any minute."

"who's uncle ben?" asked diana.

"why, di! how very queer you are. don't you remember uncle ben, the awful man who has the circus?"

"no, i don't," said diana. "is it true that rub-a-dub's dead?"

"oh, di! rub-a-dub died weeks ago. what does it matter about a mouse? i'm frightened about uncle ben. if he catches us he'll change his mind, perhaps, and i cannot ride greased lightning again. don't speak so queer, di. do rouse yourself. we must get out of this as fast as we can."

"as fast as we can," echoed diana. "all wight, orion; i's k'ite sati'fied."

"well, come, then," said orion; "get up."

"i don't think i care to."

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"but we can't run away if you are lying there."

"no more we can," said diana. she laughed again. "isn't it fun?" she said. "and so rub-a-dub isn't dead after all?"

"yes; of course he is."

"orion, look!" said the child; "look!"

"look at what?" answered the little fellow. "oh, diana! don't say it's uncle ben!"

"i don't know nothing 'bout no uncle ben; but didn't you see something flash there?—something white, just over there? i know who it was; it was mother. mother has gone to the angels, but she has come back. mother! mother! come here! call her, orion; call her, call her!"

"mother! mother!" said the little boy; "mother, come here!"

but there was no answer to this cry, which, on the part of orion at least, was full of agony. no answer either from the heaven above or the earth beneath.

"it was a mistake, i s'pect," said diana. "mother is in heaven; she's a beautiful angel, singing loud. well, let's come 'long." she staggered to her feet, and, supported by orion, began to walk across the field. "let's go into the garding," she said.

poor little orion was quite in despair.

"we are miles from the garden," he said. "i think you have gone silly."

"s'pect i has," said diana. "what fun!"

"and you have got such a queer look on your face."

"a k'eer look on my face?" repeated diana.

"yes; and your eyes, they are ever so big; they frighten me."

"my eyes k'ite fwighten you, poor little boy," said

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diana. "well, let's wun; let's get to the garding. why, it's the day mother went away to the angels, and we has got no lessons. where's iris? i want iris."

"so do i," said orion. "oh, di! what is to become of us? you frighten me."

"k'ite fwighten poor little boy," echoed diana. "i's sossy, but i can't help it. i's giddy in my head. does this way lead to garding, orion?"

"no. what are we to do?" said orion. "oh, i am so frightened!" he really was. diana's strange behavior was more than he could understand. "oh, i'm so bitter hungry!" he cried. he flung himself on the grass.

diana stood and looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face.

"why, you is a poor little boy," she said. "now, if you'll take my hand we'll go indoors, and fortune will give us a lovely bekfus. come, orion; don't be fwightened, poor little boy."

they walked across the field. by this time the sun was up and the place felt warm and dry. little orion, shivering in his queer circus dress, was glad of this, and a faint degree of returning courage came into his heart.

diana did not seem to feel anything at all. she walked along, singing as she walked.

"we's going to the dead-house," she said. "rub-a-dub's dead."

"you'll never know fear any more, little dear; good-by, rub-a-dub."

"oh, don't di! you make me feel so frightened,"

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said orion. "why do you talk like that? can't you 'member nothing?"

"course i 'member," said diana. "rub-a-dub's dead."

"never know fear, little dear; rub-a-dub's dead."

"come this way," said orion, taking her hand.

she was quite willing to follow him, although she did not in the least know where she was going.

"s'pect i aren't well," she said at last. "don't be fwightened, poor little boy. s'pect i aren't k'ite well."

"i's so hungry," moaned orion.

"well, let's go into the house; let's have bekfus. where's fortune? come 'long, orion; come 'long."

they had reached the highroad now, and were walking on, orion's arm flung round diana's waist. suddenly, rattling round a corner of the country road, came a man with a milk cart. he was a very cheery-looking man with a fat face. he had bright blue eyes and a kindly mouth.

"hullo!" he said, when he saw the two little children coming to meet him. "well, i never! and what may you two be doing out at this hour?"

diana gazed up at him.

"i's going to the garding," she said. "i's to meet iris in garding. we is to 'cide whether it's to be a pwivate or a public funeral."

"bless us and save us!" said the man.

"don't mind her," said orion; "she's not well. she fell off a horse last night, and there's something gone wrong inside her head. i s'pect something's cracked there. she's talking a lot of nonsense. we

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has runned away, and we is desperate hungry. can you give us a drink of milk?"

"well, to be sure," said the man, smacking his lips as he spoke. "i never saw anything like this afore, and never heard anything like it, neither. why, it's like a page out of a printed book. and so you has run away, and you belong to the circus, i guess. why, you are in your circus dresses."

"see my bow and arrow," said diana. "i is the gweat diana; i is the gweatest huntwess in all the world."

"to be sure; to be sure!" said the man.

"and i am orion," said the boy, seeing that diana's words were having a good effect. "you can watch me up in the sky on starful nights. i am a great giant, and this is my girdle, and this is my sword."

"i never heard anything so like a fairy tale afore," said the man. "are you sure you are human, you two little mites?"

diana took no notice of this.

"i want to get into the garding," she said. "i want to lie down in the garding; i want iris; i want mother. man, do you know that my mother has gone away to the angels? she is playing a gold harp and singing ever so loud; and once we had a little mouse, and it was called rub-a-dub, and it's deaded. we gived it a public funeral."

"oh, do let us have some milk, and don't mind her!" said orion.

the man jumped down off the cart, and, turning a tap in the great big can, poured out a glass of foaming milk. he gave it to orion, who drank it all off at the first draught. he then filled out a second

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measure, which he gave to diana. she took it, raised it to her lips, took one or two sips, and then gave it to orion.

"there's something sick inside of me," she said. "i don't know what's the matter; i isn't well."

"she had a bad fall last night at the circus," said orion. "she fell from one of the rings. i s'pect something's cracked inside her head."

"i s'pect something's c'acked inside my head," echoed diana, looking up piteously. "i want to go to the garding; i want to lie down."

"well, look here," said the man; "this is more than i can understand. you had best, both of you, go back to the circus, and let the people who has the charge of you see what's the matter."

"no!" screamed orion; "never! never!"

he suddenly put wings to his little feet, and began to fly down the road, away from the milkman.

diana stood quite still.

"aren't he silly little boy?" she said. "but he mustn't go back to circus, milkman; it would kill him. i isn't able to wide to-day, 'cos i's c'acked inside my head; and he mustn't wide without me, 'cos it would kill him. couldn't we go to your house, milkman, and rest there for a bit?"

"well, to be sure; i never thought of that," said the man. "so you shall, and welcome. jump up beside me on the cart, missy."

"i can't, 'cos my head's c'acked," said diana.

"then i'll lift you up. here, you sit there and lean against the big milk can. now, we'll set peggy going, and she will soon overtake little master."

diana laughed gleefully.

"do you know, you's an awfu' nice man?" she said.

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"i am glad you think so, missy."

the man took the reins and peggy started forward. they soon overtook little orion, who was lifted also into the milk cart. then the milkman turned swiftly round and carried the children back to a small house on the outskirts of the town. when he got there he called out in a lusty voice:

"hi, bessie! are you within?"

a woman with a smiling face came to the door.

"now, what in the world is the matter with you, jonathan?" she answered.

"only this, wife. i met the queerest little pair in all the world on the road. can't you take them in and give them rest for a bit? i believe the little miss is hurt awful."

"i's c'acked inside my head, but it don't matter," said diana.

the woman stared from the children to the man; then something in diana's face went straight to her heart.

"why, you poor little mite," she said, "come along this minute. why, jonathan, don't you know her? course it's the little missy that we both saw in the circus last night. didn't i see her when she fell from the ring? oh, poor little dear! poor little love!"