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.”