she said. "Run upstairs at once, Iris, and fetch your hat."

Iris immediately left the room.

"The child looks as if something had stunned her," thought Mrs. Dolman to herself. "I never saw such a queer expression on any little girl's face. Now, I am quite certain if Philip or Conrad had been kidnaped, that Lucy and Mary would be a great deal too sensible to act in this silly way. The worst of it is, too, that there is nothing really to lay hold of, for the child does not even complain--she simply suffers.

What am I to do? How am I to tell the children's father that two of them have disappeared, and the eldest, his favorite, too, is very ill?"

Iris re-entered the room, with her sun-bonnet hanging on her arm.

"Put it on, my dear, put it on; and brisk up a little," said Mrs.

Dolman. "There is no good in giving way to your feelings."

"I never give way to them, Aunt Jane. I try to be patient," answered Iris.

Mrs. Dolman tied on her own bonnet with her usual vigor. She then took one of the hot little hands in hers, and, a few moments later, the aunt and niece were standing outside Dr. Kent's door in the pretty little village street.

Dr. Kent was at home. He was a young man, and a clever doctor, and he gave Iris a good overhauling. He listened to her lungs and heart, put several questions to her, was kind in his manner, and did not express the least surprise when he heard that the little girl could neither eat nor sleep.

"I perfectly understand," he said. "And now, my dear, I hope soon to have you as right as a trivet; but, in the meantime, I should like to have a little talk with your aunt. Can you find your way into my dining room? You have only to turn to the left when you leave this room."

"Thank you," answered Iris. She went to the door, opened it, and shut it behind her.

"Now, what do you think about her?" said Aunt Jane. "Out with the truth, please, Dr. Kent. You know I never can stand any beating about the bush."

"There is nothing of the ordinary nature the matter with your little niece," began the doctor.

Mrs. Dolman raised her brows in surprise and indignation.

"How can you say that?" she remarked. "The child looks seriously ill."

"Please allow me to finish my speech. There is nothing the matter with the child in the form of organic or any other disease; but just at present there is such a severe strain on her mind that, if it is not completely relieved, she is very likely to die."

"Doctor! What a terrible thing to say!"

"It is true. The child needs rousing--she is losing all interest in life. She has been subjected to a terrible shock."

"Of course she has," replied Mrs. Dolman; "but the extraordinary thing is that a child of ten years of age should feel it so much."

"It is not extraordinary in that sort of child," replied the doctor.

"Can you not see for yourself that she has a very delicate and a very nervous organism. She has lately, too, lost her mother, has she not?"

"Yes; and I believe the child was very fond of her; but, indeed, I may as well say that I never saw anyone more sensible than little Iris about that. She scarcely seemed to grieve at all. Of course, I dare say she was very sorry, but she did not show it."

"All the worse for her," answered Dr. Kent. "If she had given way about her mother, and allowed her grief to get the upper hand, she would not be so ill as she is now. Then came the second blow--the extraordinary loss of the children."

"Then you really think her very ill?" said Mrs. Dolman. "I would do anything to save her, doctor. These four children were put into my care by their father."

"Where is the father now?" asked Dr. Kent.

"He must have nearly reached the Himalayas by this time."

"Is it possible for you to communicate with him?"

"To say the truth, I have hesitated to do so. He suffered terribly at the death of his wife. It would be fearful for him to learn that two of the children are missing, and one very ill. I have waited, hoping for better news."

"You did wrong. He ought to know of this calamity. Each day that does not give you tidings of the missing children lessens the chance of your ever recovering them. I must say their disappearance is most mysterious."

"So it is," answered Aunt Jane suddenly. "And in my heart of hearts,"

she added, "I am greatly alarmed."

"Well, if I were you, I would send a cablegram to the address most likely to find Mr. Delaney."

"If you think it right."

"I do. It is the only thing to do. He ought to come home immediately.

That little girl ought to have her father with her."

"Then your opinion is that Iris is very ill?"

"She is on her way to be very ill. At the same time, if her mind is relieved, she will be well in a week. Under existing circ.u.mstances, however, there seems but small chance of that. You ought to communicate with the father, and if I were you I would let the child do something herself--even if that something is useless--to try to recover her lost brother and sister."

"What do you mean? It really is impossible for the child to go over the country looking for Orion and Diana. Oh, what trouble I brought upon myself when I undertook the care of my brother's family!"

"I am very sorry for you, Mrs. Dolman, but I must give you my true opinion. Please act on my suggestion; I am sure you will not regret it. Communicate with the father in the quickest way possible, urge him to return to London without fail, and give little Iris something to do which will occupy and satisfy her mind. In the meantime I will order her a tonic, but medicines are not what she needs. She requires mind rest, and nothing else will make her well."

Mrs. Dolman left Dr. Kent's house, feeling very uncomfortable. She took Iris home, was wonderfully gentle to her during the walk, and sent her up to the schoolroom with a message to Miss Ramsay to say that she was not to do any more lessons that morning. Having got rid of Iris, she went immediately to have an interview with her husband in his study.

"Well, William," she said, "I own myself beaten."

"My dear Jane--beaten? In what way?"

"Here's a pretty mess," continued Mrs. Dolman; "Orion and Diana cannot be found, and Dr. Kent says that Iris is going to be very ill."

"Iris going to be ill?" repeated Mr. Dolman. "Has she caught anything taking. If so, Jane, it would be our duty to separate the children immediately."

"Oh, nonsense, William! Where would she take a catching complaint in a wholesome, well-sanitated rectory like this? Have you never heard of nerve troubles?"

Mr. Dolman opened his sleepy eyes and stared full at his wife.

"My dear," he said, "I often thought that _you_ had never heard of them. So you really believe in them at last?"

"I am forced to when that pretty child is dying from the effects of them."

Mrs. Dolman then repeated to her husband all that Dr. Kent had said.

"I cannot stand the responsibility any longer," she said. "I will send a cablegram to David this very day. What will he think of me? Of course he will never forgive me. In the meantime, William, have you anything to propose about little Iris?"

"Yes," answered Mr. Dolman. "There may not be much in my suggestion; but the fact is, I feel dreadfully restless, sitting here day after day, doing nothing."

"William, what do you mean?" answered his wife. "Sitting here day after day, doing nothing! Have you not your parish to attend to?"