The countess was at a loss, and perhaps would have gone with the little one further into the woods, had not one of the earl’s gamekeepers come up at that instant, and taking off his hat, said:
“Better not venture into the woods, my lady; a gang of gipsies passed through, last night.” Then catching sight of Rita, as the child called herself, he burst out in surprise; “Why, bless my soul! here’s one of ’em!”
“Does this child belong to the gipsies?” asked Lady Maude, who never could hear the word gipsy without a sudden red light flushing to her pale cheek.
“Yes, my lady; saw her with them when they passed through, last night. S’pose she’s got left behind, in a mistake. I don’t believe she’s one of ’em, though; stole, most likely.”
“Do you think so?” said Lady Maude with interest. “She does not look unlike a gipsy. Why do you think she has been stolen?”
“Why, my lady, if she had been one of themselves, some of the women would have had her; but nobody seemed to own this one, or to care about her. I saw one of the men draw her along side of the head, last night, with a blow that knocked her down. Lord! how my fingers were itching to do the same to him!”
“Poor little thing!” said Lady Maude, compassionately, folding her in her arms with a sudden impulse. “Poor little thing! Yes, now I think of it, it is more than probable she has been stolen, for she cannot speak English. Carry her to the hall; her poor little feet are all cut and bleeding, and we can not allow her to perish here.”
The man lifted the child in his arms, and followed the countess to the hall, where she gave orders to have the little foundling properly dressed and cared for, before presenting her to the earl. He smiled as he listened to her story, and followed her to the room where little Rita, now washed and neatly dressed, sat on the floor playing with some toys. But as his eyes rested on the dark, brilliant face, the smile faded away, and a half-puzzled, half-doubtful look took its place.
“Is she not beautiful, dear Ernest? Does she not remind you of some bright, rich, tropical flower?” said Lady Maude, in admiration.
“Or some bright-winged, gorgeous little butterfly—yes,” said Lord De Courcy. “But, Maude, it seems to me—I can not account for it—but it seems as if I had seen her somewhere before.”