“What a foolish woman I am!” she said. “Very likely those horrible people will be found, and I shall have to give her up. But nothing shall induce me to believe that she belongs to them.”
She kissed the child, carried her into the house, and fed her with some bread and milk, after which baby soon fell into a sound sleep. Mrs Vallance laid her on the sofa, and sat near with her work, but she could not settle at all quietly to it. Every moment she got up to look out of the window, or to listen to some sound which might be Austin coming back triumphant with news of the gypsies. But the day went on and nothing happened. The vicarage was full of suppressed excitement, the maids whispered softly together, and came creeping in at intervals to look at the beautiful child, who still clasped the little clog in her hands.
“Yonder’s a queer little shoe, mum,” said the cook, “quite a cur’osity.”
“I think it’s a sort of toy,” replied Mrs Vallance, for she had never been to the north of England and had never seen a clog.
“Bless her pretty little ’art!” said the cook, and went away.
It was evening when Mr Vallance returned, hot, tired, and vexed in spirit. His wife ran out to meet him at the gate, having first sent the child upstairs.
“No trace whatever,” he said in a dejected voice.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Priscilla, trying not to look too pleased, and just then a casement-window above their heads was thrown open, a white-capped head was thrust out, and an excited voice called out, “Ma’am! Ma’am!”
“Well, what?” said Mrs Vallance, looking up alarmed.
“It’s all come off, mum—the brown colour has—and she’s got a skin as white as a lily.”