“Only for a few days more,” repeated Grandmamma.  “And if those days bring nothing, what are we to think—­what are we to do?”

“Upon my soul,” said Grandpapa, “I do not know;” and with a heavy sigh he turned away again, glancing at the newspaper as if half inclined to open it, but without the heart to do so.

“Of course,” he said, “if by any possibility they had fallen into kind hands, and it had occurred to any one to advertise about them, we should have known it before this.  The police are all on the alert by now.  If dishonest people have carried them off for the sake of a reward, they will find means of claiming it before long.  The head-man at Sandlingham does not advise our offering a reward as yet.  He says it might lead to more delay if they are in dishonest hands.  Their captors would wait to see if more would not be offered—­better let them make the first move, he says.”

“To think of putting a price on the darlings, as if they were little strayed dogs!” exclaimed Grandmamma, lifting her hands.

Just at this moment the door opened, and Dymock came in.  Grandmamma raised her face quickly, with a look of expectation—­the door never opened in those sad days without her heart beating faster with the hope of possible tidings—­but it as quickly faded again.  Dymock had just the same melancholy expression; he still walked on tiptoe, and spoke in a muffled voice, as if he were entering a sick-room.  This was his way of showing his sympathy, which really was most deep and sincere But somehow it provoked Grandmamma, who was, it must be confessed, rather a quick-tempered old lady at all times, and at present her nerves were of course unusually irritated.

“Well, what is it, Dymock?” she said testily.  “I wish you would not go about like a mute at a funeral.  You make me think I don’t know what.”

“Beg pardon, ma’am, I’m sure,” said Dymock humbly, but still in the same subdued way.  He would not have taken offence just now at any remark of Grandmamma’s; but he could not help speaking to her with a sort of respectful indulgence, as much as to say, “I know she can’t help it, poor old lady,” which Grandmamma found exceedingly aggravating.  “Beg pardon.  But it’s Mrs. Twiss.  If she could see you for a moment, ma’am?”

“Old Barbara!” exclaimed Grandmamma.  “Is it possible that she—­she is so shrewd and sensible—­can she have heard anything do you think, Dymock?”

But Dymock shook his head solemnly.

“No, no, ma’am.  It’s not that.  I’m very sorry if by my manner I raised any false hopes.”

“That you certainly did not, my good Dymock,” said the old lady grimly.

“But—­would you see Mrs. Twiss, ma’am?  She’s going from home I believe.”

“Going from home—­she who never leaves her own cottage!  Yes, I will see her,” and in another moment the neat old woman was making her curtsey at the door.

“Come in, come in, Barbara,” said Grandmamma.  “And so you are off somewhere?  How is that?  Ah, if I were as strong and well as you, I think I would be tempted to set off on my travels to look for my lost darlings.  It is the staying here waiting and doing nothing that is so dreadful, my good friend.”