“Yes, Aunt Jane,” answered Iris.

She hung her head listlessly.  Mrs. Dolman put her arm round the slender waist and drew the child close to her side.  Iris submitted to this embrace without in any way returning it.

“And when you see the doctor he will, of course, order you a tonic, and perhaps tell us to take you to the seaside.  If that is the case, we must do so, Iris—­we must do our duty by you, whatever happens.  It would never do for you to be ill, you understand.”

“Yes, Aunt Jane,” answered Iris; “that’s what I think myself—­it would never do.”

“Then you will try to get well, dear?  You will do exactly what the doctor says?”

“Yes, Aunt Jane.”

Mrs. Dolman looked earnestly into her little niece’s face.

“You know,” she said, in a brisk voice, “I am, for my part, quite certain that we shall get tidings of the lost children either to-day or to-morrow.  We are not leaving a stone unturned to get them back.”

Iris raised her delicate brows, and for a moment there came a flashing light of hope into her eyes; but then it died out.  She lowered her lashes and did not speak.

“You are pale, and your hands are hot,” said Mrs. Dolman.

“I feel hot,” answered Iris, “and I am thirsty,” she added.

“Oh, come! this will never do,” said Aunt Jane.  “I shall just take you away this minute to see the doctor.”

She rose impatiently as she spoke.  The apathy which was over Iris irritated her more than she could express.  If the child had only burst into tears, or even defied her as little Diana used to do, she felt that she could comprehend matters a great deal better.

“If we are quick, we may see Dr. Kent before he goes on his rounds,” 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.