“Been safe at home this long while.”
“Who found her?”
“’Twas me, master.”
“Where was she?” asked Tod, his tone softening. “Let us hear about it.”
“I was making back for the town” (we supposed he meant Alcester), “and missed the way; land about here’s strange to me. A-going through a bit of a groove, which didn’t seem as if it was leading to nowhere, I heard a child crying. There was the little thing tied to a tree, stripped, and——”
“Stripped!” roared Tod.
“Stripped to the skin, sir, save for a dirty old skirt that was tied round her. A woman carried her off to that spot, she told me, robbed her of her clothes, and left her there. Knowing where she must ha’ been stole from—through you’re accusing me of it, master—I untied her to lead her home, but her feet warn’t used to the rough ground, and I made shift to carry her. A matter of two miles it were, and I be not good for much. I left her at home safe, and set off back. That’s all, master.”
“What were you doing here?” asked Tod, as considerately as if he had been speaking to a lord. “Resting?”
“I suppose I fell, master. I don’t remember nothing, since I was tramping up the lane, till your voices came. I’ve had naught inside my lips to-day but a drink o’ water.”
“Did they give you nothing to eat at the house when you took the child home?”