“Then, my dear, we will consider the thing arranged.  We can easily get John Burroughs to lend us one of his curates for Sunday, and you will do all the rest.  Now, shall I see Iris and submit the plan to her?”

“An extraordinary plan it is,” answered Mrs. Dolman; “but perhaps you are right, William.  At any rate, I have proved myself so completely in the wrong that I am willing on this occasion to be guided by you.”

She rose from her seat, left the room, and went up to the schoolroom.

“Iris,” she said to the little girl, “I want you and Apollo to come downstairs immediately.”

Iris sprang to her feet; she grew white to her lips.

“Have you heard anything?” she asked.

“No, my dear, nothing—­nothing whatever; only your uncle wishes to speak to you.  Now, come at once, for he is not the sort of man to be kept waiting.”

Mrs. Dolman left the room and the children followed her.  When they reached the study, Iris went straight up to her uncle.

“What do you want with me, Uncle William?” she asked.

“The fact is this,” he answered, scarcely looking at her, and speaking with great eagerness and emphasis for him; “you and I, Iris, have got to do something, and there is not a moment to delay.”

A great flood of color filled Iris’ cheeks, a new light darted into her eyes.

“Oh, yes, Uncle William,” she said, panting as she spoke, “we have been doing nothing too long.  It has nearly killed me, Uncle William,” she added.

“Then, my dear, we will just be our own detectives—­you and I and Apollo.  We will start this very afternoon; we will look for the children ourselves.  Why, what is the matter, my dear; what is the matter?  What are you doing?”

For little Iris had fallen on her knees, had caught her uncle’s hand in both of hers, and was pressing it frantically to her lips.

“Oh, Uncle William,” she said, “how can I thank you?  I promised mother the day she died that I would be a little mother to the others, and I have failed, I have failed dreadfully, and it is killing me, Uncle William.  But oh, if I can find them again, and if you will really help me, and if we do start to-day—­oh, if this is true, then I am happy again.”

“You observe, my dear Jane,” said Mr. Dolman, “that my proposal seems to be correct.  Now, run off, Iris, and get Simpson to pack some clothes for you and Apollo.  We will leave Super-Ashton by the three o’clock train.”

CHAPTER XIX.

“A PIGMY I CALL HIM.”