Colonel Maxwell looked as if nothing in the world could ever make him glad any more. He was a fair, pale, worn-looking man, with melancholy blue eyes; it seemed—as indeed was the truth—as if sorrow and trouble lay like a heavy burden on his shoulders; he stooped slightly, in spite of being a soldier, and looked years older than he was. When the service was over and the congregation was going out, Sir Henry Smith asked him to wait a minute, while he went into the vestry to speak to Mr. Sands. Colonel Maxwell stayed in his place by the door: he sat leaning forward, shading his eyes with his hand, letting the people pass without much notice, though some of them looked curiously at him. A small group of children came among the last, their feet tripping lightly over the old uneven pavement; and last of these came a little girl of about seven years old. She was a fair, delicate-looking child, slenderly made and with small features; her large blue eyes had a grave puzzled expression. She was dressed in a plain white frock and had a small locket tied round her neck; a round hat with a blue ribbon was set on a head of thickly curling hair. The curls were like pale gold silk, soft and fine, clustering in shining rings about the child's neck and behind her ears. She followed the other children to the door, where one of them turned round and spoke to her. She shook her head violently, while the grave little face lighted up with a happy smile.
"No!" she said in a loud whisper. "I'll wait for John."
Then she stood still in the porch, just where a ray of sunshine fell across the rough wall, nodding and smiling to the others as they hurried on their way; then she turned round and looked into the church with a quick little air of impatience, and met the eyes of the stranger, fixed upon her so intently that she might have been frightened, but for their gentleness.
She was not frightened. On the contrary, she seemed to be a little attracted, for she mounted the doorstep, which brought her a few inches nearer, and gazed at him, in the dim half-light of the church, as earnestly as he gazed at her. The puzzled look seemed to deepen in her eyes. Her curiosity was roused to the utmost. Who could this be, who sat so still, looking so kind and so very unhappy—so strangely surprised, too, at the sight of a little girl? And as for Colonel Maxwell, he passed his hand once or twice over his eyes, as if he doubted his own sight, and looked again at the child, and said to himself, "Come, this is simply a delusion. It has her look, somehow—it is what she might have been by this time—but how could it be possible! I must get over these dreams and fancies. It is not the first time I have fancied a likeness—and yet certainly—what has the child got round her neck? I wish she would come a little nearer!"
But those quiet moments were over; the singing men and boys were coming out now, and among them came a tall young man whose stern face brightened at the sight of the child; she, with a little jump, caught hold of his hand, and they walked off instantly together.
The child looked back once; and before they reached the gate she said to her companion, "Did you see the poor man in church, John?"
"What poor man, Lily?"
"Sitting just by the door—didn't you see him? He had such a thin face, and big eyes something like mine, and he looked at me as if he wanted something so bad. If you hadn't come just then, I think he'd have spoke to me."
"Would he? Well, we don't want strange poor men, Lily," said John, as he tramped along the road.
"He wasn't like that nasty Dick. He was a gentleman."