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?”

“Oh, I don’t mean that—­you attend to the parish, my love.”

“Thank you, William, for acknowledging that fact at last.”

“I frankly acknowledge it.  Then, too, we have no sick poor in the parish, and everything is really in a prosperous condition; but the fact is, I hate sitting down to my comfortable meals, and lying down at night on my comfortable bed, not knowing in what part of the world dear, spirited little Diana may be.  I don’t think half so much about the boy as little Diana.”

“You are like all the rest of your sex, William; you are taken by a child because it happens to be a girl and has a pair of black eyes.  For my part, I never could bear little Diana.”

“Please don’t say that now.”

“Oh, it is not that I am not sorry for her; of course, I am dreadfully sorry, and I acknowledge—­I do acknowledge—­that I have been more or less to blame.  But now, please, come to the point—­you always were such a man for going round and round a subject.”

“Well, then,” said Mr. Dolman, “this is it.  The doctor wishes Iris to be roused.  Let me take both her and Apollo, and let us begin to look for the lost children.”

“And do you suppose,” answered Mrs. Dolman, with a laugh, “that you will be more likely to find the children than the clever detectives who are on their track?”

“We can go to London and take a detective with us.  Iris will at once feel happier if she is doing something.  The fact is this:  I am certain the inaction is killing her.”

“It is an extraordinary plan,” said Mrs. Dolman; “but after all, if it is the only way to keep Iris alive, I suppose we must consider it.  But, William, I am the suitable one to take Iris and Apollo about.  Indeed, why should Apollo go at all?  He at least is in perfect health.”

“The person to consider is Iris,” said Mr. Dolman.  “She will confide in Apollo when she will not confide in anyone else; and I think, Jane,” he added, looking very strong and determined, “that she would rather go with me than with you.”  Mrs. Dolman flushed.  “You know, Jane,” continued her husband, “you have been a little hard on these children.”

“Perhaps so,” answered Mrs. Dolman, “and when I have tried to do my duty, too.  But, of course, Evangeline’s children were likely to be unmanageable; they had such extraordinary training when they were babies.  However, as matters stand, I have not a word to say.”