"Not until he has been twice round the circus," said Uncle Ben. "You stand aside, missy, or Greased Lightning may tread on you."

But Diana was not to be so easily restrained. She now flew up to Uncle Ben and tried to pull his big whip from his hand.

"You don't dare to stwike my bwother!" she repeated, her eyes flashing. Her determined att.i.tude, the fearlessness of her whole little nature induced Uncle Ben to yield to her for the nonce. This he did more, particularly as he saw that the little boy was really incapable of keeping his seat another moment.

"Well, then, look here, little miss," he said; "you has behaved very well indeed yourself, and so I'll let the little chap off this morning. Now you know, sir, it is 'cos of your sister, for she's a plucky 'un; so you may go back to my wife. Here, Sarah; take the pair of 'em. You can go and sit on one of them chairs over there, children, and see us as we go through our rehearsal."

The rest of the morning was a truly exciting, not to say breathless, time to Diana. She had not an instant to regret her absence from Iris and Apollo. The exploits, the feats performed by the three circus girls, and by Tom the clown, to say nothing of the advent of the elephant and of the donkey who could perform numberless tricks, and finally, the performances of the troop of dogs, who seemed more human than most human beings, all fascinated the little girl. Even Orion forgot his terrors as he looked on; his cheeks flamed through their walnut dye, and his dark eyes grew brighter than ever.

When the rehearsal was at last over, the whole party rushed back to their rooms, where a hasty meal was served; and little Diana sat between two of the circus girls and was petted, and laughed at, and made much of, and Orion kept close to Aunt Sarah, who took care that he should have as many t.i.t-bits as she could manage to secure for him.

At three o'clock there was a public performance, but now neither Diana nor Orion was allowed to be present. They found themselves shut up once more in the ugly little room, where Mother Rodesia had first taken them. From this place they could hear as a sort of distant echo the shouts of the men and women who were performing, and the cheers of the people who were looking on.

At six o'clock the performance came to an end, and then, indeed, began a fearful bustle and excitement. People were running here, there, and everywhere, and, two hours later, the great vans were all packed, the animals properly secured, and the party, with the exception of Aunt Sarah, Diana, and Orion, had started _en route_ for the west of England.

"Why isn't we going with the others?" asked Diana.

"'Cos the train is faster, little miss," answered Aunt Sarah. "And now the cab is at the door, and, if you will jump in at once we will be at the station in no time."

"I calls it lovely," said Diana, turning to secure Orion's approval.

"I like it miles better nor lessons with Miss Wamsay nor being beated by Aunt Jane. Only, course," she added, in a meditative voice, "I's twuly, twuly sossy for Uncle William and Iris and Apollo."

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE HEART OF THE LITTLE MOTHER.

It may seem almost impossible to believe that two little children could be kidnaped in the England of to-day. Nevertheless, such was the case. Mother Rodesia had managed her theft with great skill. The gypsies had appeared unexpectedly in the Fairy Dell--no one knew they were there, therefore no one looked for them. Having kidnaped the children, Mother Rodesia took care immediately to bury their clothes, and then she sold them to Ben Holt, the great circus manager, who took them within a few hours right away to the southwest of England. The little children had not accompanied the _troupe_, but had gone with Aunt Sarah by train. There had been little fuss and no apparent attempt at hiding the pair, therefore no one thought of looking for them in the large southwestern town where Holt established his great circus.

It was the most popular time of the year for performing shows of all sorts, and Ben Holt expected to make a considerable sum of money out of the pretty and vivacious little pair.

Meanwhile, the police were on their track; advertis.e.m.e.nts about them were scattered all over the country--considerable rewards were offered, and there was more than one nearly broken heart in the pretty Rectory of Super-Ashton.

Even Aunt Jane felt by no means herself. She would not own to having done anything wrong, but she became wonderfully gentle to Iris and Apollo. She was unremitting, too, in her efforts to recover the lost children, and began to look quite peaky about the face and lined round the mouth.

As to Uncle William, he preached nothing but old sermons, finding it beyond his powers to devote his attention to anything fresh or new. He hated the study window where little Diana had lain in his arms--he hated the memory of the whip which he had used over her. On one occasion he even went the length of saying to his wife:

"Jane, it was your doing--she was too spirited a child for the treatment you subjected her to. She ought never to have been whipped.

But for you she would not have run away."

This was a very terrible moment for Aunt Jane, and she was too much cowed and stricken to reply a single word to her husband. He could not help, notwithstanding his great anxiety, having a momentary sense of pleasure when he found that he had got the upper hand of his clever wife; but Aunt Jane had it out with the servants and the parishioners afterwards, and so revenged herself after a fashion.

As to Iris, a very sad change came over her. She grew thin and very pale; she scarcely ate anything, and scarcely ever spoke. Even Apollo, even little Ann quite failed to comfort her. She did not complain, but she went about with a drooping look, somewhat like a little flower which wants water.

"Iris is not well," Miss Ramsay said one morning to Mrs. Dolman. "She does not eat her food, and when I went into her bedroom last night I found that she was wide awake, and had evidently been silently crying.

I think she ought to see a doctor!"

"Dear, dear!" replied Mrs. Dolman. "Do you know, Miss Ramsay, I am almost sorry I undertook the charge of the little Delaneys. They certainly have turned out, as their poor father expressed it, a handful. If Iris is really ill, I had better see her. Send her to me.

You don't suppose she is--fretting?"

"Yes; of course she is fretting dreadfully," replied Miss Ramsay. "And no wonder, poor little girl! For my part, I consider it perfectly awful to contemplate the fate of those poor lost children."

"Oh, they will be found--they are likely to return here any day,"

replied Mrs. Dolman. "It is just like you, Miss Ramsay, to go to the fair with things, and to imagine the very worst. Why, for instance, should not some very kind people have found the children? Why must they, as a matter of course, have fallen into the hands of cruel and unprincipled folk? Some of the very sharpest detectives in Scotland Yard are on their track. For my part, I have not the slightest doubt that they will soon be brought back."

Miss Ramsay uttered a sigh.

"I will send Iris down to speak to you," she said.

This conversation occurred between three and four weeks after little Orion and Diana had disappeared. Mrs. Dolman was in her study. It was a very ugly room, spa.r.s.ely furnished. There was a large, old-fashioned desk in the center of the room, and she was seated in an armchair in front of it, busily engaged making up her different tradesmen's books, when the door was softly opened and Iris came in.

Mrs. Dolman had not had any special conversation with Iris since the mysterious disappearance of the two younger children, and now, as she raised her eyes and looked at her attentively, she was startled at the great change in her appearance. The child was reduced almost to a shadow. She was dressed in her heavy black, without a touch of relieving white. Her lovely hair hung over her shoulders, and was pushed back from her low brow, bringing into greater contrast the small, pinched, white face, and the great brown eyes, which looked now too big for the little countenance to which they belonged.

"Come here, Iris," said Mrs. Dolman. She had always liked Iris the best of the children. "Come and tell me what is the matter."

Iris came slowly forward.

"Miss Ramsay says that you do not eat and do not sleep. If that is the case, I must send for the doctor to see you," continued Aunt Jane.

"Yes, Aunt Jane," answered Iris.

She hung her head listlessly. Mrs. Dolman put her arm round the slender waist and drew the child close to her side. Iris submitted to this embrace without in any way returning it.

"And when you see the doctor he will, of course, order you a tonic, and perhaps tell us to take you to the seaside. If that is the case, we must do so, Iris--we must do our duty by you, whatever happens. It would never do for you to be ill, you understand."

"Yes, Aunt Jane," answered Iris; "that's what I think myself--it would never do."

"Then you will try to get well, dear? You will do exactly what the doctor says?"

"Yes, Aunt Jane."

Mrs. Dolman looked earnestly into her little niece's face.

"You know," she said, in a brisk voice, "I am, for my part, quite certain that we shall get tidings of the lost children either to-day or to-morrow. We are not leaving a stone unturned to get them back."

Iris raised her delicate brows, and for a moment there came a flashing light of hope into her eyes; but then it died out. She lowered her lashes and did not speak.

"You are pale, and your hands are hot," said Mrs. Dolman.

"I feel hot," answered Iris, "and I am thirsty," she added.

"Oh, come! this will never do," said Aunt Jane. "I shall just take you away this minute to see the doctor."

She rose impatiently as she spoke. The apathy which was over Iris irritated her more than she could express. If the child had only burst into tears, or even defied her as little Diana used to do, she felt that she could comprehend matters a great deal better.

"If we are quick, we may see Dr. Kent before he goes on his rounds,"