"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."

The seaside town of Madersley was crowded to excess. It was the height
of the summer season, and Holt's circus was doing a roaring trade.
There were two exhibitions daily, and every available corner in the
great tent was crammed to excess. The spectators said that they came
principally to see the little dark-eyed girl ride. For Diana had taken
to the life almost as kindly as a young duck takes to the water. She
had learned her part quickly, and in a very short time she could ride
even the most spirited horse. She wa