John took this advice as far as he could. He was not tempted to talk much at Carsham, for he was not a popular character there. He had a good deal of influence among the young men of his village, and he used this influence to keep them out of the Carsham public houses. Among the less respectable of these houses, therefore, there was a good deal of spite against John. People paid him the high compliment of calling him a "saint," which to their minds was the worst thing that could be said of a young man. They also called him a hypocrite and a molly. It may easily be believed that if John ever heard of these remarks, they troubled him less than the flies that buzzed round his head as he walked in the garden. He knew, honest fellow, that he was neither a saint nor a hypocrite. As to being a "molly," whatever that might mean, it was an odd description of the strongest and bravest young man in Markwood and all the country round. But some people think, or pretend to think, that there is no manliness without wickedness, and of course, to such minds as these, men like John give no satisfaction whatever.
Days, weeks, months rolled by, and neither at Carsham nor Markwood was any inquiry made about the little lost child. The gossips talked a good deal at first, but soon—a nine days' wonder—the interest of the story died away, and it seemed as if Lily had always lived in the quiet village, in the blacksmith's low-roofed cottage, in the flowery garden which soon became as much hers as John's. She was backward in talking, but Mrs. Randal was soon called "mother," and John was her big brother, while she was herself known all over the village as "John's Lily."
Like a fairy she went flitting everywhere, warmly dressed by Mrs. Randal, for the child was delicate, and no wonder, after the exposure she had gone through—her silken curls shining, a little queen at once among the other children, who followed her with slow admiration in everything she said and did. As John unconsciously was a refining influence among the men of the village, and his gentle mother among the women, so was Lily among the children. She caught none of their rough ways; bad words died away into silence, somehow, before they came near Lily, as white as the flower whose name she shared; quarrels were checked by the sight of her smiling face. She was the little peacemaker in the village. John could not for some time make up his mind to send her to school; he had an idea of keeping this fairy treasure "unspotted from the world;" and the children, though not a bad set on the whole, had of course all the faults and the ups and downs of other children. But his mother looked at it from a calmer and more sensible point of view.
"Don't you see, my lad," she said, "it would be different if you could afford to bring her up like a little lady. As things be, if nothing turns up, she'll have to live like you and me, and like the other children. We can't bring her up without education, which neither you nor me is clever enough to give, and the other children won't hurt her, John. She'll do good to them, and they'll do no harm to her. I see that with the little Alfricks, and Polly says so too."
Mrs. Randal did not add that she and Mary had talked the subject over more fully still, for they were both quite aware that Lily, being after all a human child and not an angel, had faults of her own which John's blind love would never see. She was self-willed, with all her sweetness; she was in a fair way of being spoilt by his indulgence; she did not at all dislike being petted and admired. She had her little fancies, too, and they were not always reasonable. Reigning from the first like a princess among the Alfrick children, she never seemed to care much for Mary, never came to her willingly, struggled down from her arms, turned her face away, though not rudely, when she asked for a kiss. She was quick enough to feel that Mary was not quite her devoted slave. John would always do what she wanted; he would give up his own way for hers a dozen times a day; she could make him laugh with a look, the touch of her little finger led and ruled him. But Mary, though never unkind, could be a little rough and cross sometimes; it was not so easy to make her play and smile and forget everything for Lily. She had even pushed her away once or twice, when heavier worries than usual, poor girl, were weighing on her mind. Lily looked at her in astonishment; she did not complain, but ran away to the forge door to peep at John through a crevice.
"Don't love Mary," she said, the next time that he and she were walking hand in hand round the garden.
John looked down, startled. "Why, little one! Poor Mary! Why d'ye say that, Lily?"
No explanation was to be had, however; the child shook her curls, and in a moment was chattering about something else, though John still stared thoughtfully. Her words vexed him rather seriously, for he had lately, in his quiet way, been thinking just the opposite.
Lily had now been a year at Markwood. A few days after this little speech of hers had set John thinking—troublesome thoughts which worked round and round in a circle, so that he could find no likely way out—on a still and lovely evening of late summer, he was coming home from a distant job of work, along the lane that led to the high road in the other direction from Carsham. This was the quietest end of the village. On one side were trees that hid the Vicarage, where the old Vicar lived alone. On the other side was the churchyard; the low, small, but beautiful old church, with its round arches and narrow windows; the old crumbling tombstones; the rows of green graves without name or date, where silent generations of Markwood lay; the great yew-trees, old too, but strong and green, that shadowed half the grass where two or three children, Lily one of them, were quietly picking daisies in the evening light. At this corner the churchyard was entered by a stile, the gate being further on, and on the stile, partly in the shade of the yews, sat Mary Alfrick watching the children.
John came up so quietly on the grass behind her, that she started when his low steady voice said, "Well, and what are you doing here?"