“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; advertisements 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.