Sunday morning dawned calm and bright, after the storm of the night before. The roads and trees were still wet, the little river ran bank full, but the flowers held up their heads bravely, and the air was full of colour and sweet scent.
Mary Alfrick came down the lane from her home and stopped outside the blacksmith's cottage on her way to church. The door was standing open, the sun was shining in on the red floor, and through the pots of geraniums in the window. The tall old clock ticked loudly opposite the door, the cat was washing herself on the step. Then a little child's voice broke out suddenly in sweet chattering tones. Mary pushed open the yard gate and walked in without further delay.
In the village she was generally thought rather "high," this girl who stood there, tall and slim, at John's cottage door. The girls of Markwood were a little shy of her; the young men were mostly afraid of her; she was not a person with whom any liberties at all could be taken. At the same time her home life was not a very happy one. Her mother had died when she was a child, and her father, a rough, ill-tempered man, had married again not long afterwards. There was now a large family of young children, and they and the farm gave quite work enough to Mary and her stepmother, a weak, selfish, complaining sort of woman. It would have been difficult, in fact, for Alfrick's farm to get on without Mary.
She did her duty, though rather roughly and hardly sometimes, perhaps; the little half-brothers and sisters respected her more than they loved her. She did not trouble herself much about smart clothes, and very little of the farmer's money was spent on her. And yet, if any one asked who was the best-looking and most superior girl in the village, they were sure to hear Mary Alfrick's name in answer.
She was always ready to do a kindness, though she might be sometimes too plain-spoken to please her neighbours. It was not easy to read her thoughts, and yet one could not look into her face without trusting her. Not quite a pretty face, perhaps; a pale skin, a quiet, rather sad-looking mouth, dark earnest grey eyes under level black eyebrows, dark hair lying in smooth waves—no frizzes or fringes—on a broad, low, white forehead. Such was Mary; and as she stood at John's door that morning, an unusually sweet smile lighted up her eyes and a faint colour flushed her cheeks.
The large armchair, covered with red chintz, was pushed back from the fireside, and there sat John in his Sunday clothes, his few treasured books on the shelf over his head, his solemn face beaming for once with happy smiles, as he danced little Lily on his knee. She was prattling and singing to herself with baby unconsciousness, the tears and terrors of the night before forgotten, finding endless amusement, as it seemed, in staring at John, and sometimes putting up a small hand to pull his hair. Then John burst out laughing, and Lily laughed and danced all the more. She looked like a fairy or spirit child, so small and delicate, her silky curls shining in the sunlight.
When Mary came to the door John started to his feet, lifted the child to his shoulder, and came forward with outstretched hand to welcome her.
"Oh, good morning," she said; "I see the little one's all right. Where's Mrs. Randal?"
"She's gone to church," John explained; "we couldn't both leave the child, you see, and she ain't so used to mother, so I'm stopping at home to see after her and the dinner; won't you sit down?"
"No, thank you, I'm going to church myself. Well, she is a sweet little thing, to be sure! She won't look at me. I wonder who she belongs to, don't you?"