“You are our dear little adopted daughter,” said Mrs Vallance; “but that is not really your name.”
“What is it then?” asked Mary.
“I do not know. Some day I will tell you how you first came here, but not until you are older.”
How mysterious it all was! Mary gazed thoughtfully out into the quiet road, at the ducks splashing about in the river; but she was not thinking of them, her head seemed to whirl. Presently she said:
“Do you know my real mother and father?”
“No,” answered Mrs Vallance.
“Perhaps,” continued Mary, after a pause, “they live in a big house like the Chelwoods, and have a garden and a park like theirs.”
“Perhaps they have,” said Mrs Vallance, “and perhaps they live in a little cottage like the blacksmith and his wife, and have no garden at all.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like that at all,” said Mary quickly; then she suddenly threw her arms round Mrs Vallance’s neck and kissed her.
“Whoever they are,” she said, “I love you and father best, and always shall.”