The gnarled roots made a kind of rustic cradle. Long, brilliantly green grass, growing against them, clustering over them, were a startling contrast in that dazzling gleam of light with the even stronger colour of a red and black plaid shawl, which lay wrapped round something in the hollow. And this something was alive—it was moving. A small white arm had pushed itself through the folds of the shawl, and as John stood breathless, a little moaning voice, frightened, unhappy, miserable, fell upon ears that had certainly heard it before. Could this be the woman's little girl—the child who had slept in John's arms twenty-four hours before? At any rate, the shawl was the same; he would have sworn to it anywhere. To be sure, she said she was going to Fiddler's Green. This was not the direct way, but she seemed a queer sort of woman. But where was she? What could she be thinking of to leave the little thing here by the roadside! Had she gone somewhere for shelter from the storm? Then why not take the child with her?
These unanswerable questions hurried each other through John's mind as he stood in the road, his wet clothes clinging to him, the birds singing joyfully all round and about, the yellow sun just setting. But it was only possible for a moment to stand and listen to that heart-breaking little cry. The child was evidently in pain—hungry, most likely—and where was its mother, and what was to be done? John laid down his damp parcel on a tuft of grass, and kneeling on the bank, gently turned back the corner of the shawl that hid the little thing's face. Her large blue eyes had dark circles round them, her small cheeks seemed to have become smaller since yesterday, and her whole look more wistful, more unhappy. She opened her eyes and gazed at John, and for a moment the feeble crying ceased. Then again seemed to return the tiredness, the misery, the lonely hunger and pain; her eyelids drooped, her face puckered itself into sad lines, and she moaned and cried as before.
"Well, this is a queer business, my word!" muttered John; and then he began to growl in his kindest tones, "There, never mind! Poor baby! Come along then!"
He lifted the child from her strange cradle, and stepped back into the road, for a slight wind had risen after the storm, and even the solid old thorn-trees were shaking down heavy showers of drops on the grass at their feet. Though he rocked the little thing and talked to her, she went on crying mournfully, and he looked up and down the road in despair.
"She wants her mother, to be sure, but a pretty sort of mother she's got! Why, she's wet to the skin. Where can that woman be? Well, I'm not going to stand here all night waiting for her, and I'm not going to leave this here child alone under the tree. If she can't take care of it, serve her right to lose it. I'll make inquiries to-morrow; she ain't far off, I suspect. In the Nag's Head or Dog and Duck, I shouldn't wonder: she looked that sort. There, cheer up, little one. Can you talk now? Can you tell us what your name is? Look here, little one, stop that noise, there's a pretty. Come, my name's John; what's yours?"
The child stopped crying, and almost a little smile dawned in her eyes as she looked up into the brown face that was bent over her.
"Lily," she said, in a clear, small, silvery voice that fairly startled John; and then, nestling down on his broad shoulder, she seemed to fall asleep.
John hesitated no longer, but picked up his parcel, and thus laden started off home. His long swinging steps covered the distance in not much more than half-an-hour, and he opened his garden gate before night had closed in.
"John!" cried his mother. "Why, what have you got there, my dear?"