"She's very well, thank you," John replied; but he looked at his own black hand and shook his head and laughed. "No, that won't do," he said. "But it is your own self, and—I hope your father's well."
"Yes, thank you, John. We have come to Sir Henry Smith's for a few days, you know, and I did so want to see if you had forgotten me, and I asked Lady Smith if I might come here all alone, and she sent me in a pony-cart—it's waiting in the village. Did you think I was never coming back any more? I believe you had half forgotten me."
"No, no," said John hastily. "I couldn't ever forget you. But don't you see, you've grown up; you ain't the little child any more, and standing there with your back to the light, 'twas no wonder I was a bit puzzled. And it's a long time, to be sure——"
"So it is—but I've written to you always, haven't I, John? And you know how my father took us abroad very soon, so that we haven't been much in England since I left you. As for you, John, you are not altered in the very least. Just exactly the same."
"Ain't I? I've got some grey hairs, Miss Lily. Well, I have much to be thankful for," said John. "I've got a good wife and a dear little child. Now please to go to Mary in the house, and I'll clean myself and be with you in a minute. You'll take a cup of tea with us, for old sake's sake?"
"Please. I should like it very much," said Lily.
Mary was looking out of her kitchen door. She had heard John talking to some one in the forge, and had seen the light little figure in the doorway, and guessed very well who it was, though she had not seen Lily since the terrible day of Carsham Fair, when the child was the innocent cause of the greatest sorrow of her life. But she bore no malice for that now; she was far too happy as a woman to find it worth while remembering the troubles of a girl, and she could not have been married more than six years to John without catching something of his wide, generous, simple way of looking at life. It was with the kindest smile, therefore, that she came forward to welcome Colonel Maxwell's daughter.
"Oh, Mary, what a naughty little girl I was!" said the child, putting up her face to be kissed. "And you were always kind to me. But there never were people like John and mother. Tell me again, before he comes in, about his bringing me home that day."
"I'll tell you everything you like," said Mary, smiling. "But won't you come into the garden first and see the flowers. You used to like them—and mother's there—and you know there's another Lily."
"Yes; but why did you call her so?"