"Don's Lily," cried the silvery voice again, with a little peal of laughter.
CHAPTER IV
THE CHURCHYARD STILE
"By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore;
And her yes, once said to you,
Shall be yes for evermore."
—E. B. BROWNING.
John went up through the wood to Fiddler's Green, a few low cottages grouped about one of those wild and lonely commons that are fast disappearing from the face of England. He found no one there who could by any possibility be little Lily's grandmother, and heard nothing of the woman who had left her in the road. Somebody told him that an old woman who had died some time before, had once had a good-for-nothing daughter who ran away. This was not much help. He afterwards went to Carsham, where he had the disagreeable task of inquiring at all the low public-houses whether a woman answering his description had been there the evening before. At one of these, the Dog and Duck, he did hear something of her. At least, he heard that a poor tramping sort of woman had come in alone, wet through, had dried herself at the fire, and sat there drinking till the storm was over, when she went away. They could not say which way she went. She seemed stupid, and they asked her no questions.
"Did she have too much?" said John.
"Nobody ever gets too much in this house, master," replied the landlady with a grin. "It's as much as the licence is worth, you know."
"Ah! I beg your pardon," said John, and he went out without saying anything more.
At none of these houses did he mention the adventure of the child. He would hardly himself have been so cautious, but his mother had warned him.
"If it's her own," she said, "you may be sure she'll be raising the country to find it. If it isn't, she'll be afraid to show up at all. So keep a quiet tongue in your head, John, and don't give the little girl away till you're sure some one has a right to her."