To both John and his mother, through that cold and sad winter, life would have been dreary indeed without Lily. The child's intelligence developed day by day. She grew taller and stronger, thus repaying Mrs. Randal's tender care, and was always trying to save her trouble in all sorts of pretty, thoughtful little ways. There was something graceful, fairylike, almost brilliant, about the child sometimes, which used to draw the attention and admiration of people passing through the village. As the spring came on, a good many strange faces were seen there, for at the end of February the line of railway through that country was finished, and a station was opened four miles off.
Under these circumstances, John watched over Lily more carefully than ever. When it was time for her to come home from school, he might often be seen standing at the forge door, all black from his work, with the glowing furnace behind him, and perhaps one or two great cart-horses waiting to be shod. Then presently the small figure in the large pinafore would come flying along the road, sometimes with other children, but more often alone, hurrying back, the first of all, to help "mother" with tea. When she was safely near the gate, John would give her a nod and a smile, while she threw him half-a-dozen kisses, and would turn back contentedly to his work. Lily was not allowed to go inside the forge now; it was found disastrous to frocks and pinafores, and there was no Mary to wash them out, as in the old happy days.
All this time, John had by no means forgotten Mr. Bland's hint about Lily's parents. The taller and prettier she grew, the sweeter and more thoughtful her ways, the oftener those words returned, and weighed upon him. He knew that something ought to be done; but he did not know what, and he put off the subject from day to day. Sometimes it crossed his mind that the Vicar might tell him what to do. Mr. Sands was a very quiet, good old man, who never interfered unasked in the affairs of his people. He had often noticed Lily, but had never said anything to John about the child. John was shy, and the Vicar was shy; they liked and honoured each other, but had never had a real conversation in their lives. John felt that if he went to the Vicar on purpose, it would just be giving up Lily of his own free will. It might be right—he hardly knew; he could not make up his mind to do it.
One mild afternoon in February, when the sun was shining softly, and the gardens were full of snowdrops, and the birds were chirping in all their new joy of spring, John heard the voices of children in the distance, and looked out as usual for Lily on her way home to tea. A little group, running and dancing, soon approached him, but Lily was neither in front nor in the midst of it. Neither could he see her beyond; she had not yet reached the turn of the road: it was the strangest thing for Lily to be last among the children.
"Where's Lily?" John called out to them as they came near.
"She's by the school; there's a man talking to her," was the answer.
"What man? A stranger?"
"Yes."
They all began to laugh when John set off running down the road. He looked a very rough object in his working clothes, no hat on his head, face and hands grimy. He was carrying an iron bar which he had forgotten to throw down, and this gave him a fierce and threatening appearance.
In the school door stood the schoolmistress, a delicate young woman, looking anxious and pale. In the middle of the road a shabbily dressed man was talking to Lily, who stood staring at him with a sort of fascinated terror. When she heard John's running steps, she started and sprang to meet him with a quick little cry; then, clinging to his hand, burst into a passion of sobs and tears.