“The dinner lingered on without any of the party appearing much disposed to partake of it, when one of the servants brought a note to Mrs. Carleton. It was written in pencil, and from her daughter Emma. ‘Dear mama,’ she wrote, ‘all of us, and our governess too, feel quite certain that the poor child you have brought home did not really belong to the old gipsy, but had been stolen. We judge from her whole manner, and the things we find, that she has been taught; but when we question her she only cries, without attempting to answer.—May we dress her in one of Ellen’s frocks, and bring her down with us after dinner?’
“‘I fear this is some romantic fancy of the children’s, to which their good-natured governess is won over,’ said Mrs. Carleton, sending the note to the General; ‘however, I want to see the poor little creature myself. Tell Miss Emma,’ continued she, addressing the servant, ‘that I have no objection to her doing as she proposes.’
“In a short time, then, behold the door open, and our poor little Julia entering between her young protectresses.
“She was dressed in a white muslin frock, her beautiful fair hair, no longer rough and entangled, fell in graceful ringlets over her shoulders, and mixed itself with the blue ribbons which looped her sleeves. She bent her delicate neck forward, and stood in an attitude of suspense, her sweet eyes looking timidly through their dark lashes as if in search of some dreaded object, her young lips parted, and her transparent cheek varying with every instant that passed by. All at once, she loosed her hands from those of her companions, drew a deep breath, whilst her forehead and neck became flushed with crimson, stood one moment irresolute, and then exclaiming, ‘There are none of them here, and you all look as if you might be my own mama’s friends!’ ran to Mrs. Carleton, and first burying her face in her lap, and then raising it, and looking beseechingly in her face, added, ‘You would not be afraid of the gipsies if they were to come, would you?—There are so many of you!—You will not let them have me, will you? O how my papa and mama will love you, if you will give me back to them again!’
“Mrs. Carleton was at once convinced that her daughter’s belief was correct: and deeply affected by the poor child’s earnest appeal, she took her in her arms, and mixing tears with her kisses, assured her that she would never part with her excepting to her ‘own mama.’ ‘Then,’ continued she, ‘you did not love the old gipsy, my poor child?’
“‘O no,’ whispered Julia, instinctively glancing round, as the terrible look crossed her memory; ‘I could not love her, and that often made me unhappy, because my own mama had told me that I ought to love every body, and so I used before that dreadful old woman carried me away.—Do you think my mama will be vexed when she knows I did not love her?’
“Mrs. Carleton now asked Julia to relate to her all she was able of the circumstances attending her being stolen. Poor Julia’s story was soon and simply told, and listened to with the deepest interest by her new friends. But when she was asked her parent’s name, and the place of their abode, she could only answer that her papa ‘used to be called Sir Charles, and that she was called Miss Julia, and that the name of her home was the Abbey.’
“‘It is strange,’ said General Carleton, ‘that we have no recollection of having heard of the disappearance of a child under such singular circumstances.’
“‘You must remember,’ replied Mrs. Carleton, ‘that we were probably abroad at the time, and an event of such a nature, however talked of at the moment, is soon forgotten by those not immediately interested.’
“‘I think I do remember something of the kind in the papers during the Easter vacation,’ said George Carleton; ‘but I know our old curate hoards up all his newspapers; let us question the little girl as to time, and then we can send for a packet of the right date.’ Julia’s simple calendar of the events of the month in which her woodland life first began, agreed with George Carleton’s recollection—‘The hawthorn was in blossom, and the hedges full of birds’-nests; the violets and primroses were nearly over, but the cowslips still in flower.’