"There never was such a pig-headed man as you. If you set your mind on a thing there is no turning you. I suppose I shall have to go, or you'll be rushing off now, and I want my supper. One thing I am sure of, John, and that is, the baby belongs to rich people, and, I think, to some nobleman, for all the things have a coronet on them, and its clothes are all so fine."
"Is there no name on any of them?"
"No, nor anything to give us the least idea who the child is. It has evidently been accustomed to luxury, though, and somehow I fancy it is a foreign child. I never saw any baby's clothes made as these are," said Mrs. Shelley.
A foreign child was an idea John Shelley could not accept so suddenly. His slow phlegmatic mind could not travel beyond his own country—scarcely beyond the Sussex downs.
"More likely to be one of the quality's children. They don't make their clothes as we do, I expect; but if you show Mr. Leslie that coronet he may be able to make something of it."
And so it was arranged that Mrs. Shelley should go the next day and consult the rector about their new-found treasure; but she fully made up her mind to use all the eloquence in her power to persuade Mr. Leslie to convince John it was plainly their duty to keep the baby which had been so mysteriously brought to them until its rightful owners claimed it.
The next morning John Shelley was up betimes, as, indeed, he always was; but it was shearing time, and he was unusually busy, and it was, moreover, Saturday, and he hoped, with the help of the men who went round the country shearing in the month of June, to finish his flock that evening, so taking his breakfast and dinner with him, he told Mrs. Shelley not to expect him back till the evening. Across the dewy meadows in the fresh June morning, the loveliest part of the day, went John Shelley, startling a skylark every now and then from the ground, from whence it rose carolling forth its matin song, gently at first, but louder and louder as it sprang higher and higher, until lost to sight, its glorious song still audible, though John Shelley was too much occupied with his own thoughts, and, perhaps, too much accustomed to the singing of the lark, to pay much attention to it. Even his dogs, Rover and Snap, failed to wake him from his meditation, until he reached the meadow where he had folded his sheep for the night, and then every thought, except whether the sheep were all safe, vanished from his mind as he stood counting them. A few words to the dogs explained his wishes that the shorn sheep were to be driven out and the unshorn left in the fold for the present; and then, after a great deal of barking on the part of the dogs, and shouting from the shepherd, and rushing and scrambling on the part of the sheep, their bells jingling a not unmusical accompaniment to the thrushes and blackbirds, which were pouring out their morning song in the adjoining copse, this manœuvre was effected, and John led his shorn flock to the downs, walking in front with his crook in his hand, while the dogs brought up the rear, yelping and barking at the heels of any erring sheep that strayed outside the flock.
The shepherd was a man who concentrated all his thoughts on the business he had on hand, and as he led his sheep to the down on which he meant to leave them to the care of the dogs for the day, he was making a nice calculation of how long it would take him and his assistants to finish the shearing, when, just as he was about to leave the sheep, he was accosted by an old woman. She was tall, thin, with a slight stoop, a hooked nose, bright black eyes, and rough, crisp, grizzly hair, which gave her rather a witch-like appearance; nor did the bonnet perched on the top of her head, its crown in the air, tend to dispel this notion. She had a knotted stick in one hand, and a basket with some pieces of wool off the sheeps' backs which she had collected from the bushes in the other. It was Dame Hursey, the wool-gatherer, well known to John Shelley and every other shepherd in the neighbourhood, with all of whom she often had a gossip, and celebrated in the district as the mother of an unfortunate son, a fine, promising young sailor, who, having been convicted of robbery some years ago, and served a long sentence in Lewes gaol, had never been heard of since, unless his mother was in his confidence.
A great gossip was Dame Hursey; she always knew all that went on in the neighbourhood, for she led a wandering, restless life, never at home except at night, sticking and wool-gathering in the autumn and winter, haymaking and gleaning in the summer, gossiping, whenever she had a chance, at all seasons. If anyone were likely to know anything about this strange baby, always supposing the fairies had had nothing to do with it, it was Dame Hursey, and the shepherd, being relieved of any further anxiety about the sheep, walked with her and told her the story.
John Shelley was neither a quick-witted nor an observant man, except with regard to the weather, every sign of which he took in, or he would have noticed that Dame Hursey started perceptibly when he told her the time he found the baby, and that a glance of quick intelligence shot into her bright eyes as she heard the story; but when he had finished she gave it as her firm opinion that the "Pharisees," and no one else, must have brought the child, and she urged John on no account to part with it, as there was no telling what revenge the fairies might take if their wishes were set aside. And the old wool-gatherer proceeded to tell such wonderful stories of the terrible vengeance wrought by these mysterious little beings on people who had despised their gifts, that the shepherd was glad to put an end to such unpleasant suggestions by walking off at a rapid pace to his unshorn sheep.