“Little lamb!” George said again, pityingly. “Well, there’s nothing to be done that I can see, except to take her to the hotel. One cannot leave her here. Leo, my hands are not free. Just tear a page out of my pocket-book—you’ll find it in the right hand pocket—and write—‘Child Joan found: safe at hotel;’ and give our address in full. Then pin it firmly to the bridge. Your aunt is sure to have plenty of pins. Or tie it—yes, that is better. Of course a boy has string. We must take back the church key to the cottage, and we can leave word there also. Perhaps we may hear something about the mother. If not, I shall have to make inquiries to-morrow. Dulcie, my dear, you must hold on to my coat-tails crossing the bridge. Or stay—you can slip your arm in mine. Yes, she is a jolly little thing,” George added, looking down on the dark, small face, with black lashes lying on the rosy cheeks.
Joan never stirred. She slept on, peacefully at rest in her new refuge.
[CHAPTER III.]
A SEARCH.
DINNER in the hotel was served always at six o’clock. Though now somewhat late in the season, tourists to the number of fifty still mustered around the table of horseshoe shape. Considerable sensation was caused by the late appearance of that “interesting man, Mr. Rutherford,” with a dark-browed infant in his arms.
Joan was by this time exceedingly wide awake; and efforts had been made to detach her from George in time for dinner, Dulcibel proposing to remain upstairs in charge of the little creature, having a tray sent up for herself. But Joan saw matters differently. She refused to be won over under any pretence or inducement whatever. George had dressed for dinner while Joan was still asleep. The moment her black eyes opened, however, she was by his side. In vain Dulcibel petted and lectured, pleaded and scolded, offered kisses and offered cake. Kisses were spurned, and cake was rejected, and blandishments fell unheeded. Joan would not so much as look at Dulcibel. She seemed quite content while clutching George’s hand, or holding to his coat; but any serious attempt to separate the two raised shouts of such indignant remonstrance that Dulcibel’s hands went to her ears.
“There’s no time to fight the matter out now. She must come downstairs with us,” said George, more than half gratified.
So some fifty pairs of eyes were treated to the sight of Mr. Rutherford, marching in the rear of his slim, little wife, bearing a small “new arrival” in his strong arms; her black eyes surveying the company with a certain jealous defiance, and her black hair pressed confidingly against his tawny beard.
“Halloo, Mr. Rutherford! Fished up a mermaid in your day’s wanderings?” asked a friendly clergyman, Mr. Meredith, George’s opposite companion at table.
“Something like it,” responded George. “Another chair here, please! We shall have to break through the rules as to newcomers. This lady is too young to manage for herself.”