"One evening, four years ago, between this place and Carsham—opposite your house, Sir Henry—John Randal found that child by the roadside. He and his mother have brought her up since then, and no child could have been taken better care of."
"By the roadside!—between here and Carsham!" repeated Colonel Maxwell breathlessly.
"I do not remember the story very clearly," said the Vicar. "But I believe John had seen her the day before with a woman who spoke of her as her own child. I know he took some trouble to find that woman, but without success. However, all this does not matter now. The first thing is to decide whether little Lily is really your child. Let us go at once to Randal's cottage."
Colonel Maxwell asked no more questions then. It seemed as if he did not wish to hear more till he had seen the child again. Down the churchyard path and along the shady road into the village he walked a little in advance of the others, his head bent, deep in thought, hearing nothing of what they said, and looking neither to right nor left. In the meanwhile Sir Henry Smith was talking gravely to the Vicar.
"I am very much afraid," he said, "that poor Maxwell will find himself mistaken. It seems almost impossible that he should really recognise the child—hardly more than an infant when she was stolen. It is true the date corresponds—but is it likely that the police would not have tracked her here, within thirty miles of London! No, I strongly suspect she belonged to the woman with whom you say she was first seen. It will not be his first disappointment, poor fellow! He has been off on a wrong scent several times already."
"Is his wife living?"
"No. I believe she died soon after this child was born. I have only known him three years; we made acquaintance at Naples. As nice a fellow as ever lived. I am uncommonly sorry for him."
They went on talking. The Vicar gave one or two reasons for thinking that little Lily was really the missing child, but Sir Henry did not seem any more inclined to agree with him. He was one of those matter-of-fact people who never believe in anything that seems unlikely, and such a string of strange coincidences was quite beyond his limit.
John's cottage and yard and garden were in the trimmest order; the yellow roses on the wall, which lasted all the summer, were already out; so were the red roses beyond, and the clusters of white pinks; but more beautiful than all were the lilies in their stately row. The cottage door was open, but Lily herself was not to be seen or heard. She had run away into the garden to gather a few of the first strawberries, having had a large pinafore tied over her clean white frock, and many injunctions to be careful. John, rather silent and thoughtful, was sitting in the large armchair, while his mother was laying the cloth for dinner.
"What are you thinking about, John, my lad?" said Mrs. Randal.