"Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From GOD, Who is our home:
Heaven lies about us in our infancy!"
—WORDSWORTH.

It was a sultry evening in summer, and John Randal was standing on the departure platform of a London railway station, looking at the train. He was a tall, fine-looking young fellow of three or four and twenty, brown and sunburnt, with dark stern eyes and an extremely grave expression. His clothes were good, though rustic-looking, and he carried a brown paper parcel in his hand. Any one who watched him might have thought there was something odd in the deep interest with which he gazed at the train, for his eyes were not attracted from it by the hurrying passengers, the porters with their loads of luggage, the ticket-collectors and guards in handsome uniform. It might have been thought that he was looking out for a friend; but no, it was the train itself which interested him. Except in one or two short trips that same week on the underground railway, John Randal had never seen a train before.

And yet his home was only thirty miles from London. But the small retired village where he had spent his whole life lay quite out of the world's track, in the quietest of valleys, sheltered among chalk hills and beech woods, ten miles at least from the nearest railway station. If the people in John's village wanted to go far from home they walked, or else they travelled in the carrier's cart which passed twice a week along the valley on its way to and from London. This state of things had lasted for many years, but its end was now drawing near. Already a new line of railway passed within four miles of John's home, and people thought that as soon as it was finished and opened, new times would dawn for that quiet country.

John did not care much about all this. He was an old-fashioned young man, and the life he knew was good enough for him—his cottage in the village street, his blacksmith's forge, his garden, where red roses and tall white lilies grew, his mother, with her gentle ways and slow movements. He did very well, it seemed to him, and he could not see that the railway would bring much good to a village like theirs. Noise, and smoke, and dirt; newspapers and bad characters. John thought and said that he and his neighbours could get on very well without the railway.

He was an ignorant fellow, you see. Till a week ago he had never left home for more than a day. Then his mother, who always thought that the world ought to know more of her John, persuaded him to go to London to see her brother, who was a printer. John tied up a change of clothes in a red handkerchief, and walked to London. His uncle and aunt were very kind to him, and took him about sight-seeing as far as they could. His aunt thought him a queer chap, for nothing seemed to surprise him much. Nothing tired him; he could walk for hours; but every day he grew more thoughtful and silent, as if his brain was oppressed by all he saw. When the day came for him to go home, his aunt packed his things, red handkerchief and all, with the presents he had bought for his mother, in a brown paper parcel, which she thought more respectable-looking than a bundle for a young man of her nephew's appearance; for no one would have taken John, by his looks, for a mere country lad. His uncle advised him to go home as far as he could by train, and John consented to this, as he would get home quicker. He came with him to the station, got his ticket for him, and left him on the platform to wait till the train started.

Here then John stood waiting, and all the fuss and noise and hurry of the station went crowding up and down without his taking much outward notice of it. Inwardly, he was rather nervous about the journey, wishing he had trusted to his own legs rather than to those carriages, solid as they looked, into which so many people seemed to be crowding.

Suddenly, in getting out of the way of a truck of luggage, a man and woman pushed up against him. The woman was holding a child by the hand, and as she pulled it hastily to one side, the little thing fell down on its face on the platform, catching its feet in the ends of a long shawl which was bundled round it. It cried, not loudly, but with low, frightened, broken-hearted sobs. The man spoke loudly and roughly—"What are you doing there?" and the woman dragged at the child's arm. John stooped and set her on her feet again; a fair little girl, not more than three years old, whose delicate prettiness struck him even at that first moment. She stretched out her arm and laid hold of his hand, lifting her face in the folds of the shawl and looking up with wet frightened eyes, sobbing low all the time. The man and woman were talking together, and took no notice of her. John caught a few words of their talk—"Take care what you're about—a big reward offered—a fine chance for us—keep your eyes open and mind what you're about—if anything happens you'll pay for it." Some scraps like these fell on his ears, for the man spoke loudly and desperately. The woman seemed half stupid, and her muttered answers were too low to be heard.

"Come, bring her along," said the man roughly.

The child's hand was snatched from John's, and her parents, or whatever they were, hurried her away to the train. They looked anything but respectable. The man, though his dress had an attempt at smartness, might have come out of the lowest slums, and the woman's dirty finery was even more repulsive. John remembered their faces afterwards: the man's white, with a pale moustache and a cunning expression; the woman's flushed, stupid, and sleepy. He watched them across the platform to the door of a carriage, into which the man hastily pushed the woman and child, turning round himself to look suspiciously up and down the train. Then the porters began to shut the doors, and one of them, passing John, looked up and asked if he was going by this train. "Then get in, and look sharp about it."

John crossed the platform with his free country stride, and stepped in at the first open door. Rather to his surprise, for he was not aware of having followed them, he found himself in the same compartment with the woman and child. The man had moved a few steps away, but as soon as the door was shut, he came back to the window.

"None of your games, you know," he said to the woman. "Write to the old shop, and you'll hear from me. You understand?"

She nodded. The man glanced sharply at John in the further corner, and then looked at her with a grin. He evidently thought him a very harmless fellow-passenger.

In another minute the train steamed slowly out of the great station into the lingering daylight of June, where towers and spires and roofs and bridges all stood out clear against a rosy evening sky, and sweet breaths of fresh reviving air blew in at the window, becoming sweeter and fresher as the train's speed increased, and before very long John saw green fields that looked greener than ever in coming twilight, and dark trees in motionless peace as the train thundered past them, and quiet streams, near whose banks the cows were lying down to sleep.

He leaned out of the window, feeling as if he had been out of the country for a year instead of a week, saying to himself, "Well, I've seen London, and that will do for me. I don't want to leave Markwood again in a hurry. Still, I've seen it, and now I can feel for the poor folks that has to live there in that racket and mess all the days of their life. As for this here train——"

He leaned back in his corner, and looked round the comfortable carriage with a wonder and admiration that was not yet deadened by custom. Then his eyes lingered on his fellow-traveller. Almost immediately after leaving London she had fallen asleep, and her poor untidy head bobbed helplessly up and down on the cushion. At first she had stuffed the child, treating it like a bundle of shawls, into the corner between herself and the window, but presently it roused her by beginning to cry again with the same sad, frightened little moaning sound as before. She snatched it up, shook it, mumbled a few angry words, and laid it roughly at full length on the seat beside her. There it remained quite still, perhaps too much terrified to cry, while she settled herself in her corner and fell asleep once more.

John too, at the opposite end of the carriage, dozed off for a few minutes. He had had a tiring week, and it was the custom in his mother's house to go to bed early. When he awoke, suddenly startled by something that touched his knee, it was nearly dark outside, and the flickering lamp lighted the carriage dimly. On the floor stood a little figure all in white, with soft hair curling behind her ears, with one small hand outstretched, with a pale face, and large wistful eyes lifted towards John. The child had scrambled down from the seat, had struggled out of the shawl which was wrapped round her, and had crept along the floor with her little white feet, which John now saw were bare, to her friend of the platform.

She said nothing, she did not cry, though her eyelashes were wet with tears, but only stood with one hand on his knee, looking up expectantly. John looked at her, and then across the carriage at the woman—her mother, was she?—still in a heavy stupid sleep.

John was intelligent enough in some ways, but his wits were never quick, and his home at Markwood was not the place to sharpen them. He did not at that time make any guess about the child's story, though he thought the whole thing queer. The strangeness of the child's dress told him nothing. The shawl in which she had been huddled concealed nothing but a little white woollen garment, and her head had no covering but its own fair curls.

John stooped towards her; she held out both her arms, and he took her with his strong brown hands and lifted her to his knee. There she sat upright for a minute, looking at him with an odd mixture of confidence and curiosity. Still she did not speak, and he was afraid to ask her any question, not wishing to rouse the woman in the opposite corner.

Presently the child began to smile. John, gazing at her in the dim light, thought she really must be a little angel come straight from heaven, so full of peace and sweetness was her small face now. Then she nestled down in his arms, her soft cheek against his rough brown coat, her heavy eyelids sank suddenly, and she fell into a sweet and quiet sleep. John had nursed children before—all the village babies loved him—and he did not feel the awkwardness from which some young men would have suffered under the circumstances. He rocked the child very gently in his arms, and presently fearing that she would be chilled, reached across the carriage for the old shawl, and laid it over her.

Neither the child nor the woman woke till the train stopped at Moreton Road, the station where John was to get out. It was quite dark now. The woman looked round with a violent start, rubbed her eyes, and then burst out laughing. John, who did not feel at all inclined to be friendly with her, laid the child down on the seat with a very grave face, and without a word.

"Come along, my dear, we've got to get out," said the woman hurriedly. "There, I say, what a naughty child you be, to be sure, troubling the gentleman like that. Now then, come to mother, and let me pin your shawl. Never was such a troublesome brat as you. Thank you kindly, sir, I'm sure."

"You're welcome, ma'am. Is she your little girl?" said John gruffly, as he took down his parcel.

"That she is, and the youngest of nine, and her father out o' work, and me laid up for six weeks in the hospital with a broken leg. I'm going to take her to my mother, as lives at Fiddler's Green; but it's the awkwardest place to get at."

"So it is, if it's Fiddler's Green not far off Markwood. You won't get there to-night," said John.

"No, to be sure not; it would be bad travelling in the dark with this here precious child, wouldn't it? Come along, lovey."

John wondered where they were going for the night. He felt uneasy, though he was too innocent and unsuspicious to disbelieve the woman when she said the child was hers. But he was shy, and did not like to ask any more questions. He lifted the child out of the train; the woman seized her hand and dragged her away along the platform of the quiet, lonely station, where only a stray lamp here and there glimmered in the darkness. John, following them, thought that he had lost his ticket, and it was a few minutes before he found it, safely stowed away at the bottom of his safest pocket.

This delayed him, and when, coming out of the station, he looked up and down the dreary new-made road, the woman and child had long ago disappeared into the darkness.

He thought about them a good deal, however, as he walked on to the village of Moreton, where he was to spend the night with the old schoolmaster who had formerly been at Markwood, and had taught him all he knew. Presently, in talking to this old friend, telling him all the village news, and describing the wonderful sights of London, he did not find room to mention the odd adventure of his first railway journey. But he wondered several times that night what would become of the child, whose sweet little face haunted him. "Fiddler's Green?" Well, it would be easy to walk over there and see her again. It was true that he did not know her grandmother's name, but those few lonely cottages could not boast another child like her. "Why," said John to himself, "she was as white as a lily. And she smiled—she smiled like one o' them baby angels in a Bible picture."

CHAPTER II
STORM AND SUNLIGHT

"And shed on me a smile of beams, that told
Of a bright world beyond the thunder-piles."
—F. TENNYSON.

John's old friend would not part with him till late in the afternoon of the next day, which was Saturday. Though the time of year was late June, the heavy heat was like July; it wearied John, strong young man as he was, and he felt that Mrs. Bland, the schoolmaster's wife, was quite right when she insisted on his having tea before he started on his walk of ten miles. She also expressed an opinion that a thunderstorm was coming—her head ached, and that was a sure sign; John had much better stay where he was till Monday.

"Thank you, ma'am, but there's my mother," said John.

Mrs. Bland's grey curls and the pink ribbons in her cap wagged as she stood looking out of the window.

"Look at that sky," she said. "Those are thunderclouds coming up, as sure as I'm alive, and my poor head never deceives me. And surely you're old enough to please yourself; a grown-up man like you needn't be in such a hurry to run home to his mother."

"Ah, Mrs. Bland, you've never seen John's mother, or you'd know more about it," said the schoolmaster from his corner.

It was only two years since he, who always thought himself a confirmed old bachelor, had been fascinated by that smiling face, with its curls and pink ribbons. In some ways his marriage had made him much more comfortable. Mrs. Bland was a capital housekeeper, and he had never had any talent for taking care of himself. But she was small in mind and great in gossip, the schoolmaster's character being the contrary of both these, and thus his frame of mind towards her became gradually one of good-natured pity, which did not prevent him, being quick of tongue, from snubbing her sharply whenever she seemed to deserve it. But Mrs. Bland smiled through it all. She had a good home and a good husband, though the village was a little dull for her taste, and though he, she said, had all the silly fancies natural to a man of his age.

"I don't know Mrs. Randal, that's true," she said; "but if she expects her son in to the minute, and isn't ever disappointed, why, she's a lucky woman, I say."

"That's just what she is," said the schoolmaster, with his kind, sharp smile; "and her son John is a lucky lad. Well, John, my boy, start when you like. If there is a storm, you'll find plenty of shelter along the road."

John, who had been listening silently while his affairs were discussed, rose suddenly to his full height in the smart little parlour. "I'll be off at once, sir," he said.

A few minutes later they stood at their door and watched him striding off down the hot silent road on his way westward, into the depths of the quiet country, while in the south, as Mrs. Bland again pointed out to her husband, great threatening clouds climbed slowly up the sky.

"There goes a fine fellow," said Mr. Bland deliberately. "It's a real pleasure to see a young man walk like that, and John Randal is as well made in mind and soul, let me tell you, as he is in body. If that chap had lived in history, and had had a chance, he would have been a hero. He would have been a knight without fear and without reproach. No, we won't despair of England as long as a few men like that are left in her villages. Fellows like John are the backbone of England, mind you."

"And a pretty stiff backbone too," said Mrs. Bland half to herself. "Well, Isaac, you talk like a book, I'm sure. Your sort of hero is a bit too rough and dull and loutish for me, you know; but I wish him well, all the same, and I hope he won't catch rheumatic fever out of the storm that's coming. If that was the case, his mother might have reason to wish he'd stayed away a bit longer."

"Mrs. Randal is a worthy mother of a worthy son," said the schoolmaster. "Those two are the salt of Markwood, Jemima. You wouldn't believe me if I told you all I know of their influence in that ignorant village."

"I'm sure I'm very glad to hear it. There's a drop of rain, and didn't I hear thunder in the distance? I said so. John's got the start of it to be sure. We shall have it first, but if it don't catch him before he gets home never you believe me again."

"A very unpleasant alternative," said Mr. Bland, following her into the cottage.

The storm, once gathered and rising, broke rapidly, and overtook John before he was half-way home. It burst upon him in the middle of a long, bare hill, without even a hedge to give him a little shelter, the road being bounded on each side by wide-spreading slopes where wheat was growing. These stretched away to great dark woods, which looked almost black in their heavy midsummer foliage as the evening closed in unnaturally dark.

Dog Down, as that hill was called, was a part of the road dreaded by travellers in winter, when bitter north-east winds swept across it without any break or defence. It was a serious adventure to cross Dog Down in the face of a snowstorm; there were stories of men, horses, and carts having been blown bodily into the ditch by the roadside, and rescued with difficulty after lying there in the freezing snow for hours. No such danger as this, of course, lay in wait for John. The heat of the day had been so great, the air even now was so fatiguing and sultry, that he had been glad to come out of the oppression of the woods into the open road down hill. But it was not by any means pleasant, even for a strong man used to being out in all weathers, to be caught in a violent thunderstorm on the very face of Dog Down.

The flashes of lightning were continuous; they dazzled John's eyes. All the air round him seemed alive and alight with flame, while the roaring and cracking of the thunder almost made the earth shake under his feet. At first there was no rain; but in a few minutes it came down like a waterspout, and as he walked steadily on, his head bent, his parcel tucked under his coat for safety, it soaked him from head to foot as effectually as if a large tank of water had been overturned just above his head. In two minutes the dry dusty road was a running stream, which cut ditches for itself in the chalk soil. The roar of the thunder and the rushing of the rain seemed to melt together into one great noise which filled the world, while every half minute the brooding gloom of the clouds was broken by keen, sudden flashes of light. It is at all times a lonely country, with few farmhouses, the farms being very large; with villages several miles apart, and cottages standing alone here and there, half hidden in corners of the woods. Travellers on the roads are few, and that evening it seemed to John as if nobody was out but himself, for during more than half-an-hour's walk through constant thunder and lightning and drowning rain, he saw neither a human being nor an animal on the road. All the better for them; it was not weather to be braved with much safety, not to mention pleasure. Twice, in a moment's lull, John heard strange crashes in the woods at the foot of the hill, towards which he was walking, and he was afterwards told that several fine trees had been struck and split by the lightning. He thought then that his own escape on the face of that bare down had been rather wonderful. But even then he did not regret having refused Mrs. Bland's kind offer of a bed till Monday: and when he was in the midst of the storm he only thought of his mother's anxiety, and what a good thing it was that he had insisted on getting home to-night.

"I was that set on getting home," he said afterwards, "one might have thought I'd guessed what was going to happen."

"It was ordered so," his mother answered in her quiet way; and presently she turned to a friend and quoted the sweet old proverb, "Who goes a-mothering finds violets in the lane."

The storm was lessening, the lightning had become less vivid, the thunder less tremendous, the intervals between them longer, though heavy sheets of rain still poured from the low-hanging clouds, when John, after two miles of level walking along the white road between the woods that clustered at the foot of Dog Down, entered the long scattered village or little town of Carsham. His own home was nearly four miles further on. The broad street of Carsham lay still, as if everybody was asleep, in that stormy summer twilight. There was no sound but the splashing of the rain, as it ran in a hundred little watercourses and poured in cascades over the roofs, and flooded the spouts of the long row of houses. Here and there a light glimmered from a window; the ten or a dozen public-houses of which Carsham street boasted had lit up early that dismal evening, and their red blinds looked warm and cheery. At the Red Lion, the largest inn, the door stood open, and there was a noise of voices inside. Four more miles! A good fire to dry one's self at, and a snug corner to rest in till the storm was over. John almost stopped and turned in. He did not really know why with a sudden, impatient movement he shook the rain from his shoulders, and muttering to himself, "I'd best get on," strode past the Red Lion, past the White Horse, the Dog and Duck, the Wheatsheaf, the Nag's Head, past the line of low cottages, over the bridge, where the mill stream came tearing down with a mighty noise, and so on in the shadow of tall trees, under the wall of Carsham Park, Sir Henry Smith's great empty mansion, whose grounds ran a long way beside the high road here.

Gradually, as John walked steadily on, the violence of the rain became less. Before he was clear of Carsham Park it had almost stopped; a lovely gold light was beginning to shine in the sky, and through the noise of the dripping trees and bushes which bordered the road, and of the little streams which ran beside and across it, the sweet voices of the birds broke out suddenly in their evening hymn.

The road here was bordered on the left by high park palings, behind which a row of great beech-trees only half hid a sheet of water in the valley, now shining gold in the sunset. From this the broad green slopes of the park, bordered with masses of trees, led up to the broad grey front of a large house, Carsham Park itself, with long rows of shuttered windows gazing dismally down its beautiful view. On the right-hand side of the road were high park-like fields, with a low steep bank descending to the road, along which stood a row of large old thorn-trees; their blossom, almost dead, still filled the air with its faint heavy scent, and their stems and roots, lying against the bank, were twisted into all manner of strange shapes. The low sun, now shining down the road, dazzling John's eyes as it made the watery world flash and sparkle like a thousand mirrors, fell full upon the roots of the largest of these old trees as he walked past it. He stood still and stared at the strangest sight on which his eyes had ever fallen.

The gnarled roots made a kind of rustic cradle. Long, brilliantly green grass, growing against them, clustering over them, were a startling contrast in that dazzling gleam of light with the even stronger colour of a red and black plaid shawl, which lay wrapped round something in the hollow. And this something was alive—it was moving. A small white arm had pushed itself through the folds of the shawl, and as John stood breathless, a little moaning voice, frightened, unhappy, miserable, fell upon ears that had certainly heard it before. Could this be the woman's little girl—the child who had slept in John's arms twenty-four hours before? At any rate, the shawl was the same; he would have sworn to it anywhere. To be sure, she said she was going to Fiddler's Green. This was not the direct way, but she seemed a queer sort of woman. But where was she? What could she be thinking of to leave the little thing here by the roadside! Had she gone somewhere for shelter from the storm? Then why not take the child with her?

These unanswerable questions hurried each other through John's mind as he stood in the road, his wet clothes clinging to him, the birds singing joyfully all round and about, the yellow sun just setting. But it was only possible for a moment to stand and listen to that heart-breaking little cry. The child was evidently in pain—hungry, most likely—and where was its mother, and what was to be done? John laid down his damp parcel on a tuft of grass, and kneeling on the bank, gently turned back the corner of the shawl that hid the little thing's face. Her large blue eyes had dark circles round them, her small cheeks seemed to have become smaller since yesterday, and her whole look more wistful, more unhappy. She opened her eyes and gazed at John, and for a moment the feeble crying ceased. Then again seemed to return the tiredness, the misery, the lonely hunger and pain; her eyelids drooped, her face puckered itself into sad lines, and she moaned and cried as before.

"Well, this is a queer business, my word!" muttered John; and then he began to growl in his kindest tones, "There, never mind! Poor baby! Come along then!"

He lifted the child from her strange cradle, and stepped back into the road, for a slight wind had risen after the storm, and even the solid old thorn-trees were shaking down heavy showers of drops on the grass at their feet. Though he rocked the little thing and talked to her, she went on crying mournfully, and he looked up and down the road in despair.

"She wants her mother, to be sure, but a pretty sort of mother she's got! Why, she's wet to the skin. Where can that woman be? Well, I'm not going to stand here all night waiting for her, and I'm not going to leave this here child alone under the tree. If she can't take care of it, serve her right to lose it. I'll make inquiries to-morrow; she ain't far off, I suspect. In the Nag's Head or Dog and Duck, I shouldn't wonder: she looked that sort. There, cheer up, little one. Can you talk now? Can you tell us what your name is? Look here, little one, stop that noise, there's a pretty. Come, my name's John; what's yours?"

The child stopped crying, and almost a little smile dawned in her eyes as she looked up into the brown face that was bent over her.

"Lily," she said, in a clear, small, silvery voice that fairly startled John; and then, nestling down on his broad shoulder, she seemed to fall asleep.

John hesitated no longer, but picked up his parcel, and thus laden started off home. His long swinging steps covered the distance in not much more than half-an-hour, and he opened his garden gate before night had closed in.

"John!" cried his mother. "Why, what have you got there, my dear?"

CHAPTER III
HOME AT MARKWOOD

"Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof."
—R. HERRICK.

Markwood, the village where John Randal had lived all his life, and his father and grandfather before him, lay in the valley of the same little river that spread out into the ornamental water at Carsham Park, and turned the old mill at Carsham.

On the London road, not very far beyond where John had found little Lily, there was a place where four ways met, with a tall white finger-post pointing each way. There was the high road, running straight through from Carsham into even quieter and more distant country, with meadows and rows of trees leading down to the river on one side, and high green fields and woods on the other. Then there was a white chalky road through Fiddler's Wood, going straight off uphill to the right, hidden at once in the deep shade of the clustering beech-trees. Then there was a narrow lane to the left, which led past an untidy duck-pond, over a low bridge, past some tall poplars, a thatched cottage or two, and a large farmhouse, so winding on, with broad green margins, till it became the regular village street, where the cottages stood nearer together, each in its large straggling garden full of flowers and fruit. Farther on were the church, the vicarage, and the little old school; then the lane went on its way between tall hedges, now sweet with honeysuckle and gay with wild roses beginning to fade, till it crossed another low bridge over the quiet, shallow river, and ended its long loop by joining the high road again, about a mile after leaving it.

Thus it was very possible for the whole world to go driving along the high road from London to the west without seeing or knowing anything of the small village that lay buried there in the valley; for even the church tower, low and square, was hidden in summer by the trees.

John's cottage was on the left-hand side of the village street, the side that faced the river, the high road, and the woods. It was very old; the low walls were coloured yellow, and the roof was thatched, but all was trim and in good order. A beautiful Gloire de Dijon rose climbed over part of the front, the door and one window being also shaded by an old jessamine now just beginning to show its sweet white stars.

The cottage stood sideways to the road, and in front of the door there was a small paved yard, entered by a gate. The path which led to the cottage-door passed beyond it to the garden, where John spent most of his spare time. He had several fruit-trees, plenty of vegetables, and in front of these a flower-garden full of roses and white pinks. John had a special fancy for white flowers. At present the most conspicuous object in the garden was a row of tall white lilies, which stood up like a wall between it and the yard.

On the other side of the yard, opposite the house, were one or two sheds and buildings, so overgrown with ivy and roses that their old age was beautiful; and in front of them, facing the road, but entered also by a door into the yard, was John's forge. Here there were horses generally standing outside waiting to be shod, stretching their patient noses over the low paling, as if they liked to smell the flowers and to watch John's mother as she went backwards and forwards to the pump in the yard. Inside the forge was a warm red light, and a constant ringing and clanking noise of beaten iron; and the tall young blacksmith, strong and clever at his work, was a very grimy object as he bent over his anvil or blew up his fire.

John's mother was not the only person who found the village a different place when he was away. The farmers for a long way round would not let any one else shoe their horses, and grumbled mightily; the old vicar missed his fine bass voice on Sunday in the choir; there was nobody else who would pick up a small child in the road and carry it on his shoulder, safe and triumphant above its companions, yet a little frightened at finding itself so high in the air. John had many friends, and yet he was not the sort of man to be popular with every one: his likes and dislikes were very strong. Like many such simple, slow-natured men, he was not easily made suspicious or angry; but when the anger came it was more serious than that of most people.

Mrs. Randal had not spent that stormy evening alone. Mary Alfrick, the daughter of a small farmer near by, had come in to see her about tea-time, as she often did, and had stayed on for hours, unable to leave the poor mother alone in her terror at the storm, her anxiety for John.

"I didn't know you were afraid of thunder and lightning, Mrs. Randal," said the girl, as they sat together in the unnatural darkness, when the vivid flashes had become less constant, and the rushing rain was almost loud enough to drown the more distant thunder.

"Ah! 'tisn't exactly the thunder and lightning I'm afraid of, Polly," said John's mother, putting her hand to her head, and looking nervously round the low room; "it's only the thought of John's being out in it. Some of the flashes were so near, I think thunderbolts must have fallen."

"He's taken shelter in Carsham, I expect. That's why he isn't here now."

"I don't think so—no, he wouldn't do that. He'd make the best of his way home. Let's see—if he'd stayed to tea with Mr. Bland——"

These calculations took some time, as neither of them knew much about the road or the distances.

Presently the rain stopped, the evening light began to shine, and Mary, by way of cheering her companion and making the time seem shorter, persuaded her to come into the garden and look at the flowers. It was wonderful how John's beautiful row of lilies had stood through the storm. Their scent and that of the other flowers made the air breathe perfume.

Mrs. Randal and Mary rejoiced over the lilies. Presently Mary began to say in a doubtful tone, lifting her grey eyes a little wistfully, that she supposed she ought to go home.

"Nay, Polly, stop along with me till my boy comes," said Mrs. Randal. "I don't know how it is, I've a queer feeling as if something was going to happen. My dear, if there's trouble hanging over me, I'd sooner have you here than anybody else, you know."

"What can be going to happen? You shouldn't go fancying things," said the girl, a little roughly. "John's late, to be sure, but he's stopped at Carsham through the storm, and a good thing too."

She said nothing more, however, about going home. As the damp twilight fell they went back into the house, and sat there listening to every sound, till just as darkness had fallen they heard John's step in the road, and then heard him open the gate in a rather slow and fumbling fashion. The door was open, and his mother hurried out to meet him, while Mary stood still in the middle of the kitchen.

"What have I got here? You may well ask, mother. Something pretty, I can tell you, though I did pick it up by the roadside."

"But what is it? A baby! Picked it up by the roadside! My goodness! Where?"

"Under them old thorns opposite Carsham House."

"But, John, you're safe yourself, my lad? You wasn't out in the storm?"

"I was, though. Feel my coat—and so was this poor little mite, afore I got hold of her."

Bending his head as usual under the low doorway, John came with his burden into the brightly lighted kitchen, and dropped his parcel and stick with a sigh of relief on the well-scrubbed table. Then he put up his foot on a stool, and gently lowered the child to his knee, folding back the corner of shawl which had sheltered her face.

"There, wake up, Lily; sit up and look about you, little one," he said.

"Well, I never! But what a pretty child! Left by the roadside! Polly, did you ever hear the like?" cried his mother in bewilderment.

John lifted his flushed face, in which the colour deepened a little. "I beg your pardon, Miss Alfrick—didn't see you."

Whatever Mrs. Bland may have thought, the village considered John's manners very good.

Mary Alfrick smiled. "You've got something else to think about," she said in a low voice. "I've been keeping your mother company."

"'Twas good of you," John muttered.

Mary came a step nearer, and they all three gazed with deep interest at the little creature on John's knee. She sat upright, staring from one woman to the other—Mrs. Randal's worn face and spectacles, the grave yet attractive look of Mary's earnest eyes. The shawl had fallen back from her little white flannel dress, her fair curls were ruffled, the small face and hands and feet were stained with mud and rain. Round her neck hung a tiny gold locket on a piece of discoloured blue ribbon.

"I'll tell you what, John, my dear," said Mrs. Randal, peering through her spectacles, "this is no poor person's child. There's something wrong behind all this. Why"—laying her hand on Lily's frock—"this here flannel cost ever so much a yard—didn't it, Polly? And look! what's that round her neck? Where did you say you found her?"

John repeated his story. "But that wasn't the first time I'd seen her," he said. "I travelled to Moreton Road with her and her mother on the railway."

"You came by the railway, John! Well, and what was her mother like?"

"She didn't look good for much," John slowly confessed. "But she told me out of her own mouth that it was her youngest, and she'd had nine, and her husband out o' work, and she in the hospital with a broken leg, and they were going to her mother at Fiddler's Green."

Mrs. Randal looked wonderingly over her spectacles.

"I doubt she was taking you in, John," she murmured thoughtfully.

"Well, anyhow, she's a sweet child," said John, "and her name's Lily."

"That's queer, to be sure, when you're so fond of lilies," said Mary Alfrick, and her words brought a smile to John's grave face.

"There's a lot yet as I don't understand," began Mrs. Randal, and poor little Lily seemed to be of the same opinion, for she was tired now of looking at the strange faces, and began again to remember that she was hungry. Would they never have done talking? perhaps she thought. Anyhow, she turned suddenly towards John, looked up into his face, and then laid her head against his coat and began to cry and sob piteously.

"I say, mother, she's hungry," said John, with great concern.

"To be sure she is, poor lamb. Here, I'll sit by the fire and you put her in my lap, and Polly'll warm some milk, and you just go straight away and change your clothes, John. I ain't going to have you sit down to supper like a soaked sponge!"

John and his mother sat up late that night after Mary was gone home, and the child, warmed, dried, and fed, had fallen fast asleep on the old sofa in the corner. Mrs. Randal was more convinced than ever that she was a lady's child. John could not yet bring himself to believe that the poor woman in the train had told him a string of lies. Somebody might have given her the flannel frock, he said. The locket seemed more puzzling. It was engraved in front with the letter L, and inside the glass at the back there was a tiny curl of dark hair. There was no other mark about the child by which she could be identified.

John's mother was half unwilling that he should carry out the plan he had made, to search the neighbourhood next day for the woman who had disappeared.

"The child's better off with us than with her, John," she said.

"You wouldn't say so if you was her mother," John answered, rather shortly.

"Maybe I wouldn't; but you mark my words, that woman's no more her mother than I am. There's something wrong, and it was a kind Providence that brought you along the road this evening, John."

"Well—I don't know, I'm sure," he growled out thoughtfully.

Sunday morning dawned calm and bright, after the storm of the night before. The roads and trees were still wet, the little river ran bank full, but the flowers held up their heads bravely, and the air was full of colour and sweet scent.

Mary Alfrick came down the lane from her home and stopped outside the blacksmith's cottage on her way to church. The door was standing open, the sun was shining in on the red floor, and through the pots of geraniums in the window. The tall old clock ticked loudly opposite the door, the cat was washing herself on the step. Then a little child's voice broke out suddenly in sweet chattering tones. Mary pushed open the yard gate and walked in without further delay.

In the village she was generally thought rather "high," this girl who stood there, tall and slim, at John's cottage door. The girls of Markwood were a little shy of her; the young men were mostly afraid of her; she was not a person with whom any liberties at all could be taken. At the same time her home life was not a very happy one. Her mother had died when she was a child, and her father, a rough, ill-tempered man, had married again not long afterwards. There was now a large family of young children, and they and the farm gave quite work enough to Mary and her stepmother, a weak, selfish, complaining sort of woman. It would have been difficult, in fact, for Alfrick's farm to get on without Mary.

She did her duty, though rather roughly and hardly sometimes, perhaps; the little half-brothers and sisters respected her more than they loved her. She did not trouble herself much about smart clothes, and very little of the farmer's money was spent on her. And yet, if any one asked who was the best-looking and most superior girl in the village, they were sure to hear Mary Alfrick's name in answer.

She was always ready to do a kindness, though she might be sometimes too plain-spoken to please her neighbours. It was not easy to read her thoughts, and yet one could not look into her face without trusting her. Not quite a pretty face, perhaps; a pale skin, a quiet, rather sad-looking mouth, dark earnest grey eyes under level black eyebrows, dark hair lying in smooth waves—no frizzes or fringes—on a broad, low, white forehead. Such was Mary; and as she stood at John's door that morning, an unusually sweet smile lighted up her eyes and a faint colour flushed her cheeks.

The large armchair, covered with red chintz, was pushed back from the fireside, and there sat John in his Sunday clothes, his few treasured books on the shelf over his head, his solemn face beaming for once with happy smiles, as he danced little Lily on his knee. She was prattling and singing to herself with baby unconsciousness, the tears and terrors of the night before forgotten, finding endless amusement, as it seemed, in staring at John, and sometimes putting up a small hand to pull his hair. Then John burst out laughing, and Lily laughed and danced all the more. She looked like a fairy or spirit child, so small and delicate, her silky curls shining in the sunlight.

When Mary came to the door John started to his feet, lifted the child to his shoulder, and came forward with outstretched hand to welcome her.

"Oh, good morning," she said; "I see the little one's all right. Where's Mrs. Randal?"

"She's gone to church," John explained; "we couldn't both leave the child, you see, and she ain't so used to mother, so I'm stopping at home to see after her and the dinner; won't you sit down?"

"No, thank you, I'm going to church myself. Well, she is a sweet little thing, to be sure! She won't look at me. I wonder who she belongs to, don't you?"

"I'm going to Fiddler's Green by-and-by," said John, "to see if that woman spoke true, and I must go to Carsham and ask if she was there last night, and where she went to. I must find her if I can."

"And if you can't find her what will you do with the child?"

"I shall keep her, Miss Mary; what else should I do?"

"Oh, I don't know," said Mary, half carelessly. "Some folks would send her to the workhouse."

"Mother and I ain't those folks, are we, Lily?" said John, looking up with a smile, as both little hands grasped his hair. "Come now, tell us what your name is."

Mary looked on at the pretty picture and listened, with a slight smile, as the child whispered—-"Lily."

"John's Lily, ain't you?" she said.

"Don's Lily."

"There—now the bell's stopped, and I shall be late."

Mary was gone, without even a glance at John's delighted face.

"Don's Lily," cried the silvery voice again, with a little peal of laughter.

CHAPTER IV
THE CHURCHYARD STILE

"By your truth she shall be true,
Ever true, as wives of yore;
And her yes, once said to you,
Shall be yes for evermore."
—E. B. BROWNING.

John went up through the wood to Fiddler's Green, a few low cottages grouped about one of those wild and lonely commons that are fast disappearing from the face of England. He found no one there who could by any possibility be little Lily's grandmother, and heard nothing of the woman who had left her in the road. Somebody told him that an old woman who had died some time before, had once had a good-for-nothing daughter who ran away. This was not much help. He afterwards went to Carsham, where he had the disagreeable task of inquiring at all the low public-houses whether a woman answering his description had been there the evening before. At one of these, the Dog and Duck, he did hear something of her. At least, he heard that a poor tramping sort of woman had come in alone, wet through, had dried herself at the fire, and sat there drinking till the storm was over, when she went away. They could not say which way she went. She seemed stupid, and they asked her no questions.

"Did she have too much?" said John.

"Nobody ever gets too much in this house, master," replied the landlady with a grin. "It's as much as the licence is worth, you know."

"Ah! I beg your pardon," said John, and he went out without saying anything more.

At none of these houses did he mention the adventure of the child. He would hardly himself have been so cautious, but his mother had warned him.

"If it's her own," she said, "you may be sure she'll be raising the country to find it. If it isn't, she'll be afraid to show up at all. So keep a quiet tongue in your head, John, and don't give the little girl away till you're sure some one has a right to her."

John took this advice as far as he could. He was not tempted to talk much at Carsham, for he was not a popular character there. He had a good deal of influence among the young men of his village, and he used this influence to keep them out of the Carsham public houses. Among the less respectable of these houses, therefore, there was a good deal of spite against John. People paid him the high compliment of calling him a "saint," which to their minds was the worst thing that could be said of a young man. They also called him a hypocrite and a molly. It may easily be believed that if John ever heard of these remarks, they troubled him less than the flies that buzzed round his head as he walked in the garden. He knew, honest fellow, that he was neither a saint nor a hypocrite. As to being a "molly," whatever that might mean, it was an odd description of the strongest and bravest young man in Markwood and all the country round. But some people think, or pretend to think, that there is no manliness without wickedness, and of course, to such minds as these, men like John give no satisfaction whatever.

Days, weeks, months rolled by, and neither at Carsham nor Markwood was any inquiry made about the little lost child. The gossips talked a good deal at first, but soon—a nine days' wonder—the interest of the story died away, and it seemed as if Lily had always lived in the quiet village, in the blacksmith's low-roofed cottage, in the flowery garden which soon became as much hers as John's. She was backward in talking, but Mrs. Randal was soon called "mother," and John was her big brother, while she was herself known all over the village as "John's Lily."

Like a fairy she went flitting everywhere, warmly dressed by Mrs. Randal, for the child was delicate, and no wonder, after the exposure she had gone through—her silken curls shining, a little queen at once among the other children, who followed her with slow admiration in everything she said and did. As John unconsciously was a refining influence among the men of the village, and his gentle mother among the women, so was Lily among the children. She caught none of their rough ways; bad words died away into silence, somehow, before they came near Lily, as white as the flower whose name she shared; quarrels were checked by the sight of her smiling face. She was the little peacemaker in the village. John could not for some time make up his mind to send her to school; he had an idea of keeping this fairy treasure "unspotted from the world;" and the children, though not a bad set on the whole, had of course all the faults and the ups and downs of other children. But his mother looked at it from a calmer and more sensible point of view.

"Don't you see, my lad," she said, "it would be different if you could afford to bring her up like a little lady. As things be, if nothing turns up, she'll have to live like you and me, and like the other children. We can't bring her up without education, which neither you nor me is clever enough to give, and the other children won't hurt her, John. She'll do good to them, and they'll do no harm to her. I see that with the little Alfricks, and Polly says so too."

Mrs. Randal did not add that she and Mary had talked the subject over more fully still, for they were both quite aware that Lily, being after all a human child and not an angel, had faults of her own which John's blind love would never see. She was self-willed, with all her sweetness; she was in a fair way of being spoilt by his indulgence; she did not at all dislike being petted and admired. She had her little fancies, too, and they were not always reasonable. Reigning from the first like a princess among the Alfrick children, she never seemed to care much for Mary, never came to her willingly, struggled down from her arms, turned her face away, though not rudely, when she asked for a kiss. She was quick enough to feel that Mary was not quite her devoted slave. John would always do what she wanted; he would give up his own way for hers a dozen times a day; she could make him laugh with a look, the touch of her little finger led and ruled him. But Mary, though never unkind, could be a little rough and cross sometimes; it was not so easy to make her play and smile and forget everything for Lily. She had even pushed her away once or twice, when heavier worries than usual, poor girl, were weighing on her mind. Lily looked at her in astonishment; she did not complain, but ran away to the forge door to peep at John through a crevice.

"Don't love Mary," she said, the next time that he and she were walking hand in hand round the garden.

John looked down, startled. "Why, little one! Poor Mary! Why d'ye say that, Lily?"

No explanation was to be had, however; the child shook her curls, and in a moment was chattering about something else, though John still stared thoughtfully. Her words vexed him rather seriously, for he had lately, in his quiet way, been thinking just the opposite.

Lily had now been a year at Markwood. A few days after this little speech of hers had set John thinking—troublesome thoughts which worked round and round in a circle, so that he could find no likely way out—on a still and lovely evening of late summer, he was coming home from a distant job of work, along the lane that led to the high road in the other direction from Carsham. This was the quietest end of the village. On one side were trees that hid the Vicarage, where the old Vicar lived alone. On the other side was the churchyard; the low, small, but beautiful old church, with its round arches and narrow windows; the old crumbling tombstones; the rows of green graves without name or date, where silent generations of Markwood lay; the great yew-trees, old too, but strong and green, that shadowed half the grass where two or three children, Lily one of them, were quietly picking daisies in the evening light. At this corner the churchyard was entered by a stile, the gate being further on, and on the stile, partly in the shade of the yews, sat Mary Alfrick watching the children.

John came up so quietly on the grass behind her, that she started when his low steady voice said, "Well, and what are you doing here?"

She was obliged to turn round and look at him, and as she did so she laughed, but it was a poor kind of laugh, and there was plenty of light for John to see that she had just been crying.

"What is it, Mary?" he said gravely, and he laid his hand over hers on the top rail of the stile.

"It's nothing, thank you."

John knew very well that Mary's troubles, though always bravely borne, were never far to seek. He had often agreed with his mother in wondering how a girl like Mary could put up with such a home as hers, with her father's roughness and ill-temper, her stepmother's selfish meanness, with nothing except the sense of duty to brighten life and make it something better than a dull, hard round of daily tasks. Mrs. Randal knew more about Mary than her son did, though hardly from what the girl herself had told her, for she was a proud girl, and never spoke of her own feelings. But Mrs. Randal in her gentleness had a way of reading people's thoughts sometimes, and as she sat in her chimney corner, she had made plans of her own in which both John's future and Mary Alfrick's were very deeply concerned. She had said nothing to either of them. So far as she knew, John had at present no thought of marrying; but she had long decided that if he was ever to bring home a wife, Mary Alfrick must be the girl.

"Look up, then, Mary," said John, and the tenderness in his voice crimsoned the girl's cheek, and made her tears overflow again. "Come, we're old friends, ain't we? What is it, my dear?" he said.

Mary shook her head. In spite of her tears, a smile trembled about her mouth. "It's nothing," she murmured again.

They were both silent for a few minutes. The sun, slowly going down, threw the yew-tree shadows longer and darker across the churchyard grass. Beyond in the warm sunshine the children were playing quietly; sweet little voices ringing now and then among the graves. Lily, very busy with her daisies, had not seen John coming, or certainly, by this time, her arms would have been round his neck. She did not see him now as he stood on the other side of the stile, close under the shade of the great yew, though a shaft of golden light was shining on his face as he looked up at Mary.

"Look here," he said presently; "listen to me a bit. I want to tell you something. Mind you, Mary, I know you're a thousand times too good for me."

Mary shook her head again, and the smile deepened. John's grave face, as he watched her, brightened too into a smile.

"But you are, you know," he said. "Mr. Alfrick would look higher for you than a village blacksmith. I've known that a long time, and now and again it's made me wish I'd gone to London long ago and got into some higher branch, such as my uncle's talked about, and Mr. Bland too. There's ironworkers earning pounds and pounds a week with some of the big firms, and it's work as I could do. But mother wouldn't have liked to leave the old house and shop, and it always seemed to me I hadn't much but her to think on—'cept when I've thought on you, Mary."

Mary paused a minute; then she answered him as quietly as he spoke. "It's not me as would ever wish you to leave Markwood, John. I never did think much of London. If you have a nice home in the country, stop there—that's my idea. Never you think of London to please me."

"What shall I do to please you, Mary?"

"Stop as you are."

"Well, that's easy done," said the young man, not without a shade of disappointment in his tone.

There was another silence. Mary did not seem to care to speak; but her tears were all gone, and she looked happy and at peace. John, on the contrary, seemed a little troubled. He felt himself so bound by circumstances that he could not, in fairness to Mary and to other people, tell her all that was in his heart just then. Yet, when he found her crying, it had been impossible not to say something. And now he could hardly leave her without saying more.

"Listen to me a bit," he said again. "There ain't the girl in England to match you, Mary; and if I haven't told you so sooner, it ain't that I haven't thought so, you know. I've thought a lot more about you than you've any notion of; and look here, I did feel as if you hadn't no right to be crying just now, and me not to know what it were all about."

He paused, as if waiting for an answer.

"Never mind that now—I was only silly," said the girl.

"I tell you, you're a sight too good for me," John went on. "You've a right to look higher than me; but if I thought you liked me a bit, I'd ask you something in spite of it all."

Mary said nothing, though he seemed to expect her to speak. It was impossible to break in with words upon the happiest moment her life had known till then; how happy, she did not understand till afterwards, as people may measure the height of a cliff from the sands at its foot.

"Mary dear, do you like me a bit?" said John.

The girl still hesitated; then she spoke, almost impatiently: "Of course I do, John."

Some grey pigeons, the Vicar's pigeons, fluttered down from the church tower; the children left their daisy-chains to watch them, clapping their hands as the wings flapped across the churchyard. The minutes passed on, the shadows grew longer. Those two by the stile told each other—John rather to his own surprise, but he felt it was true—that there never had been a time in their lives, from childhood till now, when they had not cared more for each other than for anybody else in the world. And the evening light brightened—the church, with its flint walls, might have been built of gold—the grass lay dazzling green beyond the shadows that stretched across the graves. But it was not all joy. Perfect happiness was still a thing that must be waited for, that shone in the distance.

"It ain't fair, after all," John said sadly. "I didn't ought to have spoke to you like this, 'cause it'll be a long while yet afore I can think of getting married, you know."

"That don't matter: we must wait," said Mary. And indeed it was quite enough for her to know that she had John's love.

The doubt of that, the fear of the future, had weighed on her mind for many a day; now she felt that she could bear anything. Now that they understood each other, nothing else in the world mattered much.

"I must save enough to keep my mother," John went on. "And now there's the child, too; we can't bring her up to work, you know—a child like her. Tell you what, when the time comes, we'll leave mother and her in the old house, and we'll take one of Pratt's cottages for you and me—shan't we, Mary? And my word, I'll work hard; but I shan't get enough in a year, nor in two years. Suppose now it was five, or seven. How long will you wait for me; tell us now?"

"Five, seven, fourteen, twenty-one," said Mary slowly, smiling all the time. "Well, I don't know where to fix it. All my life, I suppose."

"God bless you, dear," said John.

And now the children were tired of their play, and they came lingering across to the corner where Mary was waiting for them. It was strange, and perhaps they felt this by instinct, that she should have waited so long and so patiently. When they were not very far off, Lily, who was dancing along as usual, singing a little song to herself, suddenly looked up and saw John by Mary's side, leaning over the stile. She gave a scream of joy, and came flying towards him. In a moment she was in his arms, perched on his shoulder. Mary went to meet the others, and caught up the youngest and fattest of her tribe, a sturdy boy of three. Then this company started off along the village, the two elders very quiet and very happy, the children singing and shouting round them.

"I'll be up later, Mary; it's Lily's bed-time," said John, as he stopped at his gate.

Mary nodded, smiled, and went on with her flock up the lane, quite sure that she was the happiest girl in Markwood, if not in the world.

But when Mr. and Mrs. Alfrick heard that she had promised to marry John Randal they were furious in their different ways, and being neither of them accustomed to restrain their tongues, Mary had a much worse time of it than ever. Nothing her father could say was bad enough for John; all the public-house abuse was showered on his name, and he was further called a low, sneaking cur, not fit to speak to Farmer Alfrick's daughter. John had certainly been right in thinking that the farmer would look higher for Mary. But in truth, at the bottom of it, Alfrick had far too valuable help from his daughter to think with patience of her marrying anybody. And this side of the question keenly touched Mrs. Alfrick, who could not even try to think what she should do without Mary. So she was an ungrateful girl, and also a born silly, to give up a good home for the sake of a prig of a fellow like that Randal, good for nothing but to pick up foundling babies and carry them to his mother.

"And you're a heartless girl to so much as think of leaving me and them poor children, and if a judgment don't come on you I shall be surprised—so there, miss!" said Mary's stepmother.

But after all Mary had been prepared for these remarks by the well-known character of those who made them. She had never expected her home people to be pleased, and as for being congratulated and fussed over because of her engagement, that had never even occurred to her as possible. She was a plain-spoken, fearless girl too, with a rough tongue of her own when she chose to use it, and one must confess that her stepmother's remarks were neither received nor answered patiently.

With her father Mary took refuge in the proud reserved silence which was also natural to her. She felt and knew that she had done her duty by him and his children, and she knew too that with all his violence he was quite aware of that. Neither he nor the whole world, she was convinced, would ever come between her and John, now that they once understood each other. There was no hurry: she had told them John could not marry yet, though she had said nothing about the length to which that waiting might possibly be stretched. For herself, on this point, she felt a power of patience that seemed likely to last for years. A traveller does not much mind his miles of dusty road, if at the far end, shining in the sun, he can see the gates and towers of the city where he is going. So the rough words of her home fell lightly on Mary, for she had just then a world of content in her heart and no fear for the future. Nothing really mattered as long as she and John kept their promise to each other, and had the happiness of meeting every day.

As for John's mother, when he told her what he had done, her pleasure and surprise were almost equal. Men like John do not always choose women as good as themselves, and Mrs. Randal had had her anxieties, feeling that no other girl in the village was worthy of her son. But with "Polly" there was no doubt; there could be nothing but thankfulness. Besides being the steadiest girl for miles round, she had all her wits about her; she knew how to keep house, and how to make a little money go a long way. And John, like most men of his simple and generous character, could never get on without a clever woman to manage his affairs and keep his home comfortable.

Mrs. Randal's only doubt was caused by the long waiting. That did not seem to her quite fair to Mary, or quite wise for her son. If it had been only the one question of John's working and saving for her, she never would have consented to it; she would have been sure to get on somehow; they could have managed to live all together in the old house, she thought, for she and Polly would never quarrel. Watching John, she saw his eyes thoughtfully following the little fairy child that played about the room. There, she saw, was the difficulty. He loved that child. He would never give her up, never let her go out into the cold world to look for another shelter; never—unless she was taken from him by those who had a better right to her. And so, with her as his first object, he naturally feared to take on himself at present any further cares, any deeper responsibility. Mrs. Randal saw it all; she looked at Lily climbing on John's knees, at the smile that brightened his face as he stooped towards her, and she said to herself, "Well, I don't say but what we've took in a little angel unawares. Still—what with Polly and a plain, happy sort of life, I doubt as my boy mightn't have done better; but there, bless her pretty face, poor lamb, one would think I grudged her the only home she's got! He's done right, and the LORD will provide."

CHAPTER V
MRS. ALFRICK

"O shame, O grief, when earth's rude toys,
An opening door, a breath, a noise,
Drive from the heart the eternal joys,
Displace the LORD of Love!"
—Lyra Innocentium

"I never heard such nonsense in my life!" said Mary's stepmother. She was standing, dressed in her best, in the rather untidy front kitchen of the farmhouse, where Mary was ironing some little pinafores. Her four younger children were playing about outside, swinging on the garden gate that opened into the steep lane leading to the village; finding what amusement they could till their mother was ready, rather to the peril of their Sunday clothes.

She was going to take them all to Carsham Fair. This grand event only happened once in three years. It was the finest pleasure fair in all the country round, and attracted crowds of people who hardly left their scattered villages and lonely commons between one fair and another.

Mrs. Alfrick was in high good humour. She had formerly lived nearer London, and often complained bitterly of the dulness of Markwood. She, like many other people of that neighbourhood, made those three-yearly fairs a date in her existence, counting up to them and down from them. This child or the other was born "a month afore last fair but one." Such an old man or woman in the village would never live to see next fair. It was just three months "afore last fair" that John Randal had picked up that child in the ditch. And it was "nigh on a year after last fair" that Mary had been such a silly as to promise to marry him.

More than two years ago that promise had been given. Mrs. Alfrick certainly did not wish to part with Mary, and would have grumbled heartily enough if John had found himself able to marry; but at the same time the delay, "wasting Polly's life," as she called it, made a fine text for her to preach upon when she wanted to tease the girl.

"No, I never did hear such nonsense!" she repeated; while Mary, who had been bustling about all the morning, helping her to get the work done, to dress the children and give them their early dinner, now bent gravely over her ironing-board, wishing the whole family would start off and leave her alone.

"There you are, thinking of nothing in the world but that child's pinners," Mrs. Alfrick went on, "while you might be going down to Carsham to enjoy yourself along with the lot of us. I do say it's a shame. If John was at home I shouldn't be surprised; but he's took a holiday and gone off to see his friends—just like his selfishness!—and left you to take care of his mother and that there foundling, as ought to have been sent to the workhouse long ago; and John, he ought to have done his duty and married you. It makes me downright sick to see the fuss you all make with that white-faced bit of a child. John thinks a sight more about her than he do about you, Polly, and you're a poor-spirited girl to stand it!"

Mary made no answer.

"There now, stupid, leave them pinners and come along. Your father'll be coming down presently, and he'd sooner see you there than not; and however am I to mind all the children by myself? It'll be the death of me. Come now, Polly, I'll wait for you ten minutes, that I will, with pleasure, and we'll call for Lily and take her down too. The children said she was crying 'cause she mightn't go. Mrs. Randal won't mind if she's with you, and serve John right, with his fidgets; he'll have to get over it. Come, Polly, you ain't bound to obey the fellow yet, any way."

"Now then," said Mary, suddenly standing upright with a very decided frown; "you know you're only wasting your breath. It's John's business whether Lily goes to the fair, and he told me to mind she didn't. So don't stop for me, if you please, for I ain't coming, and would rather stop away."

"Well, you might keep a civil tongue. I'm only speaking for your good," observed her stepmother. "Some day you'll know I'm right, when you're a bit tired of being that fellow's slave, and of seeing that conceited chit always put before you. Perhaps then you'll remember it was me as had to suffer, with all them children to look after, because you was that ill-natured and that selfish. Good morning to you."

She walked out of the house with an injured air. Mary was far too much used to her way of talking, however, to pay much attention. She called after her, "Look here! just tell Mrs. Randal as you pass that I've got the ironing to finish, and the house to clean up, and I'll be down as soon as ever I can."

Mrs. Alfrick did not condescend to turn her head or to make any answer. She called the children—the elder ones had gone on before—and they trooped off down the lane all together.

It seemed, however, as if her bark might be worse than her bite, for when she reached the blacksmith's cottage, she told the children to wait for her in the road, turned in at the little gate, and knocked at the door. It was opened by Lily.

The little girl was now, as far as they could guess, about six years old, for more than three years—it was now October—had passed by since that evening of summer storm when the old thorn roots had done their best to shelter her till she found a safer refuge in John's kind arms. She was a small, slight child, fair and delicate-looking, with beautiful, expressive blue eyes, hair still in the silky golden curls of early childhood, and a general air of grace and refinement that marked some difference, real or imaginary, between her and her companions at school and play. They all admired Lily and gave up to her; and if Mrs. Randal had not been firm as well as kind, this, with John's indulgence, might have been very bad for the child's character. But though she was self-willed and accustomed to take the lead, the home life of the cottage taught her to be unselfish, generous, and truthful. Lily had her faults, but they were not of a serious or a mean kind, and her loving little heart was quite devoted to John and his mother. Towards Mary she never, even now, showed much affection; the girl was undemonstrative and shy. But she took her as a matter of course, as something belonging to John, and therefore to be trusted, to be flown to in trouble, to be obeyed when necessary.

Mrs. Alfrick, when the door was opened, stared down rather in surprise at the slight little figure in the simple blue frock.

"Well, my dear, and where's mother?" she said slowly.

"Poor Mrs. Nash is very ill," the child answered in sweet tones, hardly spoilt by the accent of the county. "They came and fetched mother. She said I mustn't mind stopping alone for a bit, 'cause Polly was coming."

"Well, I never! Let's come in a minute, there's a good child," said Mrs. Alfrick, pushing the door, which Lily was holding open just wide enough to show her small self, and no more. "Well, I never! and so you're left all alone."

Mrs. Alfrick stood on the bright red tiles and looked round at the polished cleanliness, the exquisite order of everything in that little low room. She did not often pay a visit there, for there was not much love lost between John's home and Mary's. Her look now was one of both envy and admiration. "But how can one ever keep a thing clean with all them children about, and that girl Polly with half her heart down here?" she muttered, in answer to her own thoughts. Then she looked again at Lily, saw that the little face was not cheerful, that the eyes so wistfully lifted were not without traces of tears, and an idea came into her head.

"Serve 'em right, every one of 'em!"

Mrs. Alfrick had been a pretty woman in her time, and still possessed a certain attractiveness when she chose to smile and look pleasant.

"Mary ain't coming yet, my dear," she said; "she's got a lot o' work to do. I'd stop along of you myself, pretty, but I'm off to the fair with the children. There now; what's the matter now, what are you crying about, child?"

"I want to go to the fair," sobbed Lily; "I want to go with the other children."

"Well, to be sure!" murmured Mrs. Alfrick, smiling.

She sat down in the large red armchair, took Lily on her knee, and danced her about for a minute or two. She could not quite make up her mind, yet every moment the idea seemed more clever, the temptation more irresistible. It would be a fine trick to play on that disagreeable prig of a John Randal, a fine punishment for Mary, with her ill-natured ways. It could not hurt the child; she would be with the others all the time.

"Look here, Lily," she said, "would you like to go to the fair with me and Tommy and the rest of us?"

The child stopped crying and looked up. Then she shook her curls violently. "John said I wasn't to go."

"Oh, my dear, that was 'cause he was going away to see Mr. Bland, and there wasn't nobody to take you. Mother and Polly don't like fairs. But he couldn't have no objection to you going along of me."

"Couldn't he?" asked Lily, her eyes dilating joyfully.

"Of course he couldn't! There, run and get your hat and jacket; that nice clean frock'll do, you're such a good little girl, you keep so clean. Lizzie's and Louisa's frocks ain't fit to be seen an hour after they've put them on."

Lily had disappeared within the staircase door before this speech was finished. In two minutes she was down again in her Sunday hat and jacket, dancing impatiently on the floor in front of Mrs. Alfrick, who found the red chair very comfortable after a morning of bustle and fatigue, and was much amused by looking round at the possessions of John and his mother.

"Well, child, are you ready?" she said.

Lily came close to her and held up a little key.

"My locket, please," she said.

Mrs. Alfrick stared.

"My locket that I always wear on Sundays," cried the child, with an impatient jump.

Mrs. Alfrick had never heard of the locket which was round Lily's neck when John found her, and had never noticed the child on Sundays.

"Well, my dear, where is it?" she said.

Lily pointed to a small tin box on a high shelf. Mrs. Alfrick, with a sigh, uprooted herself from the comfortable armchair, climbed on another chair which Lily brought, and took down the box, partly moved by curiosity. There was the little gold locket lying in cotton wool, with a fresh piece of blue ribbon. It was soon tied round the little girl's neck.

"Did John give it you?" Mrs. Alfrick asked.

"Don't know. I've had it always. It's my locket," was the only explanation to be had from Lily. "Mother says I mustn't ever lose it."

A suspicion of the truth then flashed across Mrs. Alfrick's mind. It was not likely, certainly, that John could have afforded to buy Lily a locket which looked like real gold. It also occurred to her that Carsham Fair was not exactly the right place for a child with anything valuable tied round her neck. But these considerations did not trouble her much.

"Serve 'em right for being so close. They never told me as the child had a locket."

She took Lily's hand and hurried her out of the house. The other children were waiting impatiently, and the whole party were soon far on their way to Carsham. Mrs. Nash, the sick neighbour to whose house Mrs. Randal had gone, lived near the church at the other end of the village. Mrs. Alfrick assured herself she could not spare the time to go fussing back there. And John was safe away at Moreton with Mr. Bland; he had gone the night before, for no work was ever done on Carsham Fair-day, and he had not had a holiday since that week in London, more than three years before.

It was about an hour later that Mary, having finished her ironing, tidied the house, and seen her father off to the fair, started down the lane with Lily's pinafores folded under her arm. The village when she reached it was very quiet, strangely quiet it seemed to her, till she remembered that by this time nearly everybody in Markwood was on the way to Carsham. But this did not account for the utter stillness that reigned in the blacksmith's little yard, and in the garden, bright with autumn flowers, where Lily was so fond of playing. Mary looked round her almost anxiously, as she turned in at the gate. Even then she felt by instinct that the house was empty, and even then a quite unreasonable feeling of alarm laid hold upon her as she slowly, hesitatingly, laid her hand on the latch of the door.

The kitchen, of course, was empty; so was the tiny parlour beyond, where a few Gloire de Dijon roses were still looking in at the window. Mary laid down her parcel and went to the staircase door, opening it, looking up into the darkness, calling once or twice, "Mrs. Randal, are you there? Lily!" But no voice answered.

With a vague fear that something dreadful might have happened, the girl ran softly upstairs; but the rooms were empty. She hurried down again and went out into the garden: it was possible that Mrs. Randal or Lily might be at the far end, behind the apple-trees. No; the garden too was empty; and she came slowly back down the pathway, puzzled, frightened, yet hardly knowing why. Mrs. Randal might have gone to see a neighbour; in that case she had no doubt taken the child with her. But it was not like her to go out when John was away; and it was still more unlike her careful ways to leave her house open. Mary remembered, however, that Mrs. Randal was expecting her that afternoon, and probably a good deal sooner than she had been able to come. Of course that was why she had left the door open.

Before going out to look for her, Mary glanced once more into the kitchen. Then she noticed Lily's everyday hat on a chair, her pinafore thrown on the floor, and also, most startling of all, the tin box where her locket was kept standing open and empty on the table.

"But wherever are they gone?" said Mary to herself. "Not to Carsham, surely!"

She went out into the road, looking up and down with wondering eyes. Hardly anybody was in sight; one or two men coming home early from their work to have their tea and be off to the fair; and one old woman, whom the village generally considered almost half-witted, leaning on a stick as she came hobbling past the forge. It was possible that she might know something, for she wandered about the village all day long, and took a deep, sometimes a mischievous interest in the affairs of her neighbours. Mary came out of Mrs. Randal's gate just as old Mrs. Pierce—Granny Pierce as they called her—was passing.

"Well, when I was as young as you," said the old woman, shaking her head at Mary, "I used to say as I'd dance at the fair so long as I'd a leg to stand on. But these young folks they're all in the dumps and doldrums. Well, what are ye looking at me like that for?"

"Nothing, Granny," the girl answered quietly. "I was just wondering if you'd seen Mrs. Randal and Lily. I can't make out where they've gone."

"Jane Randal ain't gone to the fair, she's not that sort, more's the pity," said Granny Pierce. "No more's your John. When be you two going to get married?"

"Oh, I don't know. Have you seen Mrs. Randal and the child? Tell me if you have, there's a good soul," said Mary.

"Yes, my dear, I'll tell you, 'cause you always, speaks civil-like to a poor old woman. They fetched Mrs. Randal more nor an hour since to Sally Nash what's got the high strikes. Seems as nobody else could keep her quiet. She'll go off in one o' them fits, you see if she don't, and a good job too, a poor measling thing. When you hears of it, my dear, you say Granny Pierce told you."

"But then, Mrs. Randal never took Lily with her there!"

"Not she, to be sure. Lily's off to the fair. She's sent her along of your stepmother and the children."

"Nonsense!"

"She did though. I'm old, it's true, and weak in my legs, but I ain't blind. I seed 'em all going off together, and that child running hand in hand with yer little brothers. All dressed smart for Sunday she was, with that there blue and white hat as you trimmed yourself. Well now, ain't you got a copper or two in your pocket, Mary Alfrick, for a poor old woman as has told you all them news?"

"Oh, I can't stop now, Granny," said Mary.

The old woman stood and looked after her, growling remarks that were not complimentary, as Mary started off to run. In another minute she was out of sight, for she had turned up the lane to the farm.

Ten minutes later Mary, in her turn, having hurried on the good clothes in which she felt bound to appear outside her own village, was walking at her fastest pace, sometimes breaking into a run, on the way to Carsham.

Fond as she was of Mrs. Randal, she now felt, for John's sake, really angry with her. When John had said that the child was not to go to the fair! And if Lily had over-persuaded her into letting her go, the idea of trusting her to Mrs. Alfrick, who was hardly capable of taking care of her own children, and certainly not of specially watching over a child of remarkable appearance, like Lily! And the locket, too! The treasure which only came out on Sundays, when either John or his mother always took the child to church themselves, and did not allow her to play with the others. It really looked as if the summons to poor Mrs. Nash in hysterics had deprived Mrs. Randal of her senses. What would John say?

Mary's one idea was to hurry to Carsham, to find Lily and bring her home. She was a delicate child and would soon be tired; the shows, the noise, the disorder and roughness of the fair were more likely to frighten than to amuse her, and Mary knew very well that her own relations would stay as late as they could, very much later than was right or wise, either for themselves or the children.

It was a quiet, cloudy afternoon; the beautiful woods, the tall trees that sheltered the road, were beginning to show the bronze tints of autumn; the old thorns, one of which had been Lily's cradle, were crimson with fruit. But Mary saw nothing as she hurried along the road, and took no notice of the traps full of noisy people that passed her, or the groups of walkers that she easily outstripped. There was a weight at her heart, though her feet seemed to have wings. Some great coming trouble whispered to her in the low wind that now and then rustled the leaves, hung over her in the darkening clouds. John's little darling! And almost the last words he had said to her were, "You'll look after Lily."

In the meanwhile, when Mrs. Randal was able to leave the poor patient a little calmer, and to make her way home, tired and longing for her tea, sure of finding it ready, and of seeing Mary and Lily's face full of welcome at the door, she only found a silent empty house where the fire had gone out, and she looked round in amazement, as Mary had done, on Lily's hat and pinafore and the open tin box. Where were they? What had happened? Mary had been there, evidently, for Lily's pinafores that she had taken to iron lay in a heap on the table. It was certainly very strange. Poor Mrs. Randal turned pale and pressed her hand to her heart. She was both bewildered and frightened. The house door open! Well, of course, Mary might have been obliged to go out somewhere on her own business. She might have run up home, and taken Lily with her, perhaps to see to the milk, if her father could not trust his man. But then it was so queer that she should have let the fire go out—and why should Lily have put on her best hat and her locket? It flashed into Mrs. Randal's mind that perhaps Lily's own relations had come and carried her off suddenly. And John away! But Mary—where was Mary?

She opened the door and went out into the yard. To her too the day seemed to have darkened, and a cold presentiment of misfortune touched her as if with an icy hand. Outside the railings Granny Pierce came hobbling along in her shabby cloak, wild grey locks escaping under her old sun-bonnet. No one else seemed to be astir in the quiet village street: everybody now was gone to the fair.

"Good afternoon, Granny," said Mrs. Randal, in her kind voice. "Have you seen my little girl or Mary Alfrick?"

"They be never gone without your knowledge, be they?" said the old woman.

JOHN'S LILY

CHAPTER IA LITTLE CHILD

CHAPTER IISTORM AND SUNLIGHT

CHAPTER IIIHOME AT MARKWOOD

CHAPTER IVTHE CHURCHYARD STILE

CHAPTER VMRS. ALFRICK

CHAPTER I
A LITTLE CHILD

CHAPTER II
STORM AND SUNLIGHT

CHAPTER III
HOME AT MARKWOOD

CHAPTER IV
THE CHURCHYARD STILE

CHAPTER V
MRS. ALFRICK