John's Lily

by Eleanor C. Price

John bent towards the little girl, colouring scarlet, while Mrs. Randal hastened to explain and apologise.

"The village people got into the way of calling her John's Lily, sir, because those two always thought such a lot of each other. They are such playfellows—and the dear child don't quite understand yet, so I hope you'll please to excuse——"

But there was no need of any excusing. Instead of carrying Lily off round the garden as she wished, John led her back among the lilies, and put the little hand he held into Colonel Maxwell's once more.

"Look here, Lily," he said, "this is your father, your own father, as lost you that time I picked you up, when you was a little girl of three. Now you're going away with him to your own home, and you've got to be a good girl and show him as mother and me hasn't spoilt you. Look up now and call him father. Say 'Dear father.'"

Lily stared at John in silent astonishment. But she had learnt by this time to know his face on the very rare occasions when he meant to be obeyed. So she lifted her wondering blue eyes to that other face, strange but so kind, and said in a low, half-unwilling voice, "Dear father!"

"My dear little girl," Colonel Maxwell said under his breath, as he stooped to kiss her.

Then he grasped John's hand and shook it heartily.

But Lily, over-wrought by these surprises, rushed away from them both, flung herself into Mrs. Randal's arms, and burst into a violent fit of sobbing and crying. John's mother, comforting and scolding by turns, took her away into the cottage and closed the door.

So John's Lily passed from his care into that of her rightful guardian. There was of course a great deal to tell Colonel Maxwell that he had not heard yet; the adventure of the fair, when those who had originally carried off the child made such a bold attempt to possess themselves of her again; the reappearance of Dick, as he was called, only last February, and his trying to entice her away from the village till John frightened him successfully away. There was a great deal to talk over, a great deal of surprise to be expressed at the failure of the police to trace the child, which could scarcely have been possible except in this very lonely country village so far from railways and the outer world. Sir Henry Smith was inclined to think John a stupid fellow for not having exerted himself to give notice to the police; but Colonel Maxwell understood John's unwillingness better than his friend, remembering that the child herself could tell nothing about her home, and that John could not possibly have known into what hands he might be surrendering her.

Colonel Maxwell had a great deal of talk with John and his mother that Sunday evening, when he walked over to Markwood again, this time alone, and took his little girl to church with him. He had something to give thanks for now, something to make him glad. Most of the village knew by this time that Sir Henry's friend was Lily's father, and he was stared at by many curious eyes. After the service he took Lily back to Mrs. Randal and asked her to keep her for one more night; the next day he would drive over and fetch her to Carsham, where Lady Smith was ready with a kind welcome for the little stray bird so happily caught again.