A spice of good-humored impatience breathed through the rich bass tones. George Rutherford stood in the hall of a somewhat primitive Welsh hotel. The door opening into a sitting-room, on one side, displayed sundry ladies and gentlemen, occupied or non-occupied in various ways. The door opening into the kitchen, on the other side, displayed a waiter or two in shirtsleeves, coming and going. The front door, opening on the hotel grounds, displayed a bare, gravelly space, with shrubs around, a short avenue of trees beyond, and glimpses of distant hills softly outlined against a blue sky.

Mr. Rutherford was a man of perhaps five or six-and-thirty years, unusually tall and massive in make, yet not stout. Honest brown eyes looked out from beneath a brow of remarkable breadth, which was framed in an abundant growth of tawny hair, fine as silk in texture. Moustache and beard, of a somewhat darker hue than the hair upon his head, almost hid a mouth of characteristic and beautiful outlines. He stood at the foot of the staircase, grasping a huge, crook-handled walking stick as tall as himself; and blissfully unconscious of, or indifferent to, the attention he was attracting from the inmates of the drawing-room, while he called again, in tones “not loud, but deep” —

“Dulcie, my dear, make haste!”

“That’s the bridegroom,” murmured a mild-faced maiden lady, quite an old resident at the hotel, since she had been there a fortnight. She addressed herself to a “new arrival,” seated by her side. “We call them ‘our bride and bridegroom.’ They came two days ago.”

“Why, he might be the father of half-a-dozen children,” quoth the newly arrived, a stout and genial widow, well on in middle life. “He a bridegroom!”

“I don’t know whether there has been a former marriage, but I rather imagine not. Oh, it is evidently a wedding tour!”

A boy of about ten came bounding downstairs in light leaps, clearing four or five steps at a time. He too had brown eyes, and a mass of tawny hair falling over a fine brow.

“She’s coming, uncle.”

“Would do for his son,” murmured the widow.

“Georgie dear,” called a small and eager voice from the landing above, “I’ll be down directly—in one moment. There’s a button off my boot, and I must sew it on.”

“All right,” responded Mr. Rutherford. “We’ll wait in front. Come, Leo!” and he strode out.

“He doesn’t look much like a ‘Georgie,’” softly said the new-comer to the maiden lady. “What a nice boy! But I don’t understand his presence if it is a wedding tour.”

“I don’t know that any one exactly understands. I fancy Mr. Rutherford is a man likely to do things in a fashion unlike everybody else. Perhaps he has adopted the boy. Here comes the bride.”

The lady, running swiftly downstairs, could hardly have been less than six or seven-and-twenty in age. She was as small and slim in make as her husband was tall and massive, and so fair in coloring that his tawny beard might almost be counted dark beside her smooth flaxen hair. The pale fringes to her blue eyes were unwontedly long and thick, and there was enough coloring in her cheeks to obviate insipidity. Her manner was marked by an eagerness amounting to flurry; and as she ran out of the front door she grasped a long stick, a rolled-up waterproof, a closed basket, a book, and a pair of gloves.

“Georgie, dear, I’m so sorry,” she was heard to say.

“All right,” responded Mr. Rutherford once more. “Hadn’t you better give me some of your paraphernalia?”

“Oh, yes—oh, thank you, dear! It’s only this book—Trench’s Poems, you know. You said you would read me some of it. Will it go into your pocket? And Leo said I must be sure to take my stick. And I thought we might want my cloak to sit on, if the grass should be damp. And in case of being late for lunch, it is best to have some biscuits and a sandwich or two, because then we shall not feel so hurried.”

“Anything else?” asked George, with an expressive intonation.

Mrs. Rutherford looked up, her anxious little fair face breaking into a smile.

“Now you are laughing at me, Georgie, dear.”

“Not at all. Always best to be prepared for emergencies. Well, come along, both of you. We shall not be back, at this rate, till—”

“Midnight,” suggested Leonard.

“No; dinner.”

“Lunch won’t matter, now we have something with us,” said Dulcibel, beginning to subside from her flurry. “You are going to show me your favorite valley, are you not, dear? Oh, don’t! I can easily carry the basket, please.”

“Give it to me. Here, Dulcie—I mean what I say. Leo will take your waterproof. If you can carry yourself there and back it will be as much as you are equal to.”

“I am sure I can. I feel equal to anything to-day.”

“Equal to anything” meant, as her husband knew by experience, equal to four or five miles, the latter part performed distressfully. Twenty or thirty miles were nothing to him. In her own home, before marriage, Dulcibel Lloyd had counted two miles an arduous undertaking, but George Rutherford was getting her slowly into training. They had been married just seven months, so it was not precisely a case of the honeymoon. In one sense they might be said to be still on their wedding trip, however. Dulcie had not yet seen her husband’s home, extensive alterations in it making a prolonged absence necessary.

They were by no means in one of the more mountainous parts of Wales. The hotel stood outside a small village, on the verge of a wild moor; the name of the village containing the liquid double “l,” as did the names of many villages near. Undulating hills lay around in all directions, showing autumn tints; and two or three mountains, attaining the respectable height of two thousand feet or more, were visible at a little distance.

George Rutherford had been to the spot a few years earlier, and he retained warm recollections of his visit. He was anxious now to display the charms of the place to his wife and nephew.

The walk to his favorite valley was fair enough, and the valley proved to be fairer still. Dulcibel would not attempt to learn the name, which had a softly indefinite sound like running water, perplexing to Saxon ears.

“I want to see what you like, but I don’t care what it is called,” she protested. “It will always be ‘Georgie’s Valley’ to me. I dislike having to talk consonants; and what is the use?”

George laughed, and gave in.

The valley lay level and green, with rounded well-clothed hills surrounding, and a wide stream or small river partly skirting it. The stream had to be crossed by a “shaking bridge” of local celebrity, a somewhat narrow structure of planks bound strongly together with wire, the whole depending on chains, and showing a singular elasticity, for it vibrated and swung at every step.

Dulcibel shrank back at first, absolutely refusing to cross or to let her companions cross. It was “dangerous,” she said; something would give way, or somebody would be giddy and tumble in. But George mercilessly strode to the centre and stood there, keeping the bridge in motion, with evident enjoyment of its undulations, and Leonard dashed merrily over. Dulcibel was fain to summon up her courage, and consent to be led across by her husband’s strong hand, growing absolutely white with fear.

“I shall enjoy nothing with the thought of having to go back,” she averred, tremulously, on the other side.

George looked down on her with a strong, tender pity, and said softly—

“O thou of little faith!”

“Georgie, dear, I’m very wrong—I’m always frightened at something,” she said, apologetically; “but you know it is my way.”

“You don’t really think I would bring my little wife where there was danger?”

“Oh, no! O Georgie, dear, no! It’s only that I am silly,” she said, her thick fair lashes downcast and wet.

“Well, don’t be silly any more. There are troubles enough in life, without manufacturing them out of nothing. See, isn’t this pretty?”

A very old gray church stood in the centre of the level green valley; and this of course had to be entered and examined, the key having been procured at a cottage on the way thither. The whitewashed walls and dusty floor within roused George’s displeasure; and Dulcibel cried out against the great roof-beams as “ugly,” till she found that he counted them worthy of admiration, whereupon she quieted into brief silence.

They found their way then to the river edge, near the church; and Dulcibel would be content with nothing short of an immediate preliminary luncheon.

“Not the sandwiches yet,” she said; “but biscuits. Now don’t say you are not hungry, Georgie dear; for I know you are. I’m almost starving.”

George disposed of a biscuit obediently, and then found himself called upon to read poetry aloud. Not that Dulcibel possessed any ear or soul for poetry; but she knew George loved it, and she was a most dutiful wife. George thoroughly appreciated her wish to please him, though no doubt he would have appreciated still more heartily the discovery of a kindred taste in her. But this was not to be expected; so he only smiled under his tawny moustache, and asked—

“What shall I read?”

“Oh, something short and pretty, dear! Trench’s poems have such nice stories in them sometimes.”

The tawny moustache twitched again.

“Now don’t, Georgie, dear! You know I shall like whatever you choose. What have you opened upon now?”

“These are only couplets—favorites of mine, rather. How do you like this, Dulcie?—

“Things earthly we must know ere love them; ’tis alone

Things heavenly that must be first loved and after known.”

“To see the face of God, this makes the joy of heaven;

The purer then the eye, the more joy will be given.”

* * * * * *

“When God afflicts thee, think he hews a rugged stone,

Which must be shaped or else aside as useless thrown.”

“I don’t like that,” said Dulcibel. “Why, Georgie, it sounds as if one ought to wish for trouble.”

“No; only to recognize the good of trouble when it comes.”

“But I can’t. And I dislike the thought of its coming—of anything ever changing. I’m so perfectly happy now, I should like to go on and go on always—just like this. But I know I can’t. I suppose one has to be ‘shaped’; but it seems to me very dreadful. I can’t bear to look forward sometimes, and to fancy all the things that may happen in life.”

“Fearing again, Dulcie?”

“How can I help it? I love you so; and changes must come. And I dread changes.”

Her hand was on George’s knee, and the words came with almost sobs between. Once more George said softly—

“‘O thou of little faith,’ Dulcie!”

“I think I must have little faith—very, very little. Looking forward makes me so afraid. I can’t bear the thought of anything passing away—as things are now. I never was so happy in all my life before. Georgie—was it very foolish of me?—last night I was lying awake, crying, thinking what it would be if you were to be taken. Life wouldn’t be worth living then. It wouldn’t, dear;” and there came a downright sob.

The boy Leo was away at some distance. George’s eyes fell again on the open page of the book; and he read aloud, in answer—

“Ill fares the child of Heaven who will not entertain

On earth the stranger’s grief, the exile’s sense of pain.”

“But I don’t,” said Dulcibel. “Of course one speaks of heaven as one’s home; and I suppose it ought to seem so. But I don’t feel the least like an exile on earth. And the pain is in expecting things to change, knowing death must come; not in being away from heaven now.”

“Dulcie, I would leave off expecting and fearing,” said her husband.

“I can’t. It is my way.”

George turned a few pages, and read aloud once more, in his strong deep voice:—

“I say to thee—do thou repeat

To the first man thou mayest meet,

In lane, highway, or open street—”

“That he and we and all men move

Under a canopy of love,

As broad as the blue sky above;”

“That doubt and trouble, fear and pain

And anguish, all are shadows vain,

That death itself shall not remain;”

“That weary deserts we may tread,

A dreary labyrinth may thread,

Through dark ways underground be led.”

“Yet if we will one Guide obey,

The dreariest path, the darkest way,

Shall issue out in heavenly day.”

“And we, on divers shores now cast,

Shall meet, our perilous voyage past,

All in our Father’s House at last.”

Dulcibel’s hand came over the page.

“George, you are making me dreadfully melancholy. I don’t think I can hear any more. I shall have to cry outright. I’m quite sure the last verse means something about being parted, and I can’t bear to think of parting. Please stop! I’m going to dip my hands in the water: and you can read a little more to yourself if you like. I wonder if there are any fish in the river.”

[CHAPTER II.]

THE CHILD.

GEORGE did not continue reading after his wife had made her way to the water’s edge, some few yards distant. She was soon busily engaged dabbling her hands in the clear water, so much occupied as to be for the time oblivious of her fair surroundings. Yet they were very beautiful.

Leo had betaken himself to a steep, rounded bill on the other side of the valley, where he could be seen, vigorously ascending. George would have liked to perform that ascent himself; but he knew that the climb would be quite beyond Dulcie’s limited powers, and that she would not be happy to remain behind. So he kept his seat, giving himself up to a dreamy enjoyment which was after all quite as much in his line as the more active enjoyment of bodily exercise. George Rutherford was a many-sided individual.

A scene lay around well worth attention. The river-bed showed golden tintings, and green reflections from the opposite bank danced on the ripples. Facing him were three hills, rising like great rounded billows across the valley. The church, built of whitish-gray stone, with low, square tower and slated roof, stood on a low level, almost at the bottom of the valley, and quite at its centre, just between the “Castle Hill,” which Leo was climbing, and George’s own position. Other hills filled up the landscape, clothed in foliage, and trees grew abundantly all along the course of the little babbling river. Glows of sunshine came and went, with shady intervals between. The calm, soft repose of the valley might well strike home to any heart.

Dulcie was not greatly affected by aspects of nature; but the calm and sweetness sank deep into George Rutherford’s heart. She was only “a few yards off, keeping up a little chatter, something like the pretty babble of the water; and George was lost in thought, quite unconscious of what she said, or of whether she said anything. He woke up at length, to find her laughing at him.

“Why, Georgie, what are you thinking about?” she cried.

“Time for us to be moving,” George said, standing up. “That boy ought to come back. How do you like my valley, Dulcie?”

“Too much shut in,” said Dulcibel promptly. “But it is pretty—and the river is nice. I wish the poor in our towns could have such a water supply. There comes Leo. Oh, we are not going back yet, Georgie! No use to think of being in time for lunch, so we’ll just eat my sandwiches here. I wish we had a bottle or two of soda-water.”

Dreamy enjoyment was over, and an hour of merriment ensued, Dulcie being in high spirits, and allowing no time for enjoyment of reposeful nature. Then at length she consented to a move, and a sigh broke from her as to “that horrid bridge.”

“I see!” George began.

“Yes; I’ve been putting it off as long as possible; but I suppose we must!” and Dulcie sighed again. “I shall never come to your valley a second time, Georgie. Horrid place! I can’t endure that bridge. Is there really no other way out?”

“Not within your powers of walking, Dulcie. And if there were—” George paused, with a curious expression in his brown eyes—“I should like my wife to be not quite so readily beaten.”

“Oh, I’m not the least proud, Georgie dear! I’d give in willingly.”

But George took the empty basket, and gave her his arm; and she had to follow his lead.

The bridge reached, they came all at once to a very unexpected sight. A little girl was there, entirely alone, possibly three or four years old, seated composedly on the grass close beside the bridge, her plump hands folded. She did not give the strangers a look of welcome. A pair of black velvety eyes gazed hard as they approached, and the black brows above drew into a forbidding frown, odd on that infantine face, while the full red lips pouted in correspondence.

“Why, Georgie, who can the little thing be?”

Dulcibel knelt straight down on the grass, and asked the child’s name. No answer was vouchsafed. The black eyes glowered at Dulcie, and the black brows frowned more heavily.

“Georgie, she’s a darling,” cried the forgiving Dulcie. “Just see what lovely eyes! She’s as dark as a gypsy. And how nicely the little pet is dressed! She isn’t a poor child, Georgie. She must belong to a lady. But fancy leaving her here! Why, she might have fallen into the river. What a mercy we came back this way! Now, you little dear, do tell me; what is your name?”

“Whom do you belong to, my dear?” asked George, as Dulcibel’s most winning smile met only with another scowl from the rich dark eyes and brows.

“Don!” came at last solemnly.

“John?” hazarded George.

“Or—Gone,” suggested Dulcibel.

“Don!” was solemnly reiterated.

“She likes you better than me, Georgie, dear. She doesn’t frown at you half so fiercely,” said Dulcibel.

George seemed flattered, and he bent low over the small piece of composed and sedate humanity.

“What is your name, my dear?” he asked. “Eh? Couldn’t you manage to say it? What do they call you? Not ‘Baby,’ I expect. You are too old to be baby! Come, tell your name, won’t you? Tell me!”

George looked indescribably coaxing, and the drawn brows relaxed in some degree.

“What’s your name, eh?” repeated George.

“Doan!” came at length, with clear incisive utterance.

“Joan; John and Joan! Yes, it must be that.”

“If it isn’t Gone, and Don’t,” said George. He rubbed his head, and combed out his long silky beard with perplexed fingers. “Here my little dear,” he said, stooping again, “tell me now, won’t you? Where’s mother?”

Silence.

“What on earth are we to do?” asked George.

“Take her to the hotel,” suggested Leo.

“There’s no hurry about going back,” observed Dulcibel, delighted to put off the evil moment of bridge crossing. “It won’t take us more than an hour to walk.”

“Depends on speed,” muttered George.

“And somebody is sure to come soon to find her. She must have wandered away from a party of tourists. We must just stay and keep guard till they appear. It is quite impossible to leave the little mite alone. Perhaps she will sit on my lap.”

But a touch from Dulcibel brought an immediate howl—not a tearful cry, only one loud, distinct shout of protest, with an accompanying scowl.

“I’m afraid she has a temper,” said Dulcie, rather alarmed.

Delay being decided upon, Dulcibel sat down, and George wandered about near at hand, repeatedly coming back to observe with curious eyes the solemn, black-eyed infant, seated pompously apart, with folded hands and calm demeanor. Leo tried his hand next, very cautiously. He drew near, and made funny grimaces, and snapped his fingers, and tossed leaves into her lap. She flung the leaves back at him, frowning still; but presently a dimple appeared in the rounded red-brown cheek, and the beautiful black eyes lighted up with a smile. Leo offered a biscuit, only to have it thrown back in his face with a renewed scowl. George meanwhile crossed the bridge, and vainly explored the neighborhood for tracks or traces of somebody. Presently, finding Leo still baffled by the little creature’s resolute unfriendliness, he came near himself, and with a quick movement lifted her straight up into his strong arms. One indignant shout rose, and then she seemed to submit—nay, seemed rather to like her new position.

“Poor wee mite!” said George. “Now, my little dear, tell me, where’s mother?”

“Don!” was this time very distinct.

“When will she come back? Did she tell you to wait here?” A nod. “Come that’s better. Did mother go to speak to somebody?” No response. “Did mother say she would be back soon?” No response. “How soon is mother coming. Don’t you know? Ah, I thought not!” as the black head was decisively shaken. “Dear me, how strange of mother to leave you here, all alone! And your name is Joan, isn’t it?” Another nod. “I thought so. Joan will have to come home with us, and be taken care of, till mother can be found.”

No answer; but Joan seemed extremely comfortable in his arms. A drowsy look was creeping into the black eyes, as if the poor little mind had been long on the stretch and needed rest. While George stood holding her, she laid her head down on his broad shoulder, and went to sleep.

“Poor wee lamb!” murmured George, quite touched.

“But where can the mother be?” asked Dulcibel.

“I hope nothing has happened to her. A most extraordinary proceeding, anyhow, to leave the child alone here. If it were not such a canny little being it might have fallen into the river and been drowned—nothing more likely! I cannot understand any mother acting in such a way, and why she has not come back.”

“I don’t suppose she intends to come back,” pronounced Dulcie. “Well, I call this quite an adventure—quite a romance! And I shall not be the least surprised if nothing more is heard of the mother—horrid, heartless, wicked creature.”

“If it really were so. But we do not know yet, Dulcie. It may be only a case of heinous thoughtlessness.”

“Or of drink.”

“No need yet to believe the worst.”

“But to think of her leaving the little pet at all—such cruelty! Ninety-nine children in a hundred would be out of their wits with fright, or would wander away and get quite lost. And she might catch her death of cold on the damp grass. Oh, you needn’t defend the woman, Georgie, dear! I have no patience with such unmotherly, heartless ways.”

George had not the slightest intention of defending a course of action which only aroused in him deeper, though quieter indignation than in Dulcie; and he held his peace.

The short frock hung loosely, and Dulcibel caught sight of a small pocket. It was a neat print frock, nicely made; and indeed the child’s whole appearance spoke of affectionate care. Dulcibel’s slim fingers dived into the pocket, bringing out thence a tiny pocket handkerchief and a minute red pencil. On the handkerchief were the initials “J. B.,” and on the pencil, where a flat place had been cut for the purpose, was printed the single word “Joan.”

“That is her name, then,” said Leo. “What a jolly little face she has, uncle—and such black eyelashes!”

“Little lamb!” George said again, pityingly. “Well, there’s nothing to be done that I can see, except to take her to the hotel. One cannot leave her here. Leo, my hands are not free. Just tear a page out of my pocket-book—you’ll find it in the right hand pocket—and write—‘Child Joan found: safe at hotel;’ and give our address in full. Then pin it firmly to the bridge. Your aunt is sure to have plenty of pins. Or tie it—yes, that is better. Of course a boy has string. We must take back the church key to the cottage, and we can leave word there also. Perhaps we may hear something about the mother. If not, I shall have to make inquiries to-morrow. Dulcie, my dear, you must hold on to my coat-tails crossing the bridge. Or stay—you can slip your arm in mine. Yes, she is a jolly little thing,” George added, looking down on the dark, small face, with black lashes lying on the rosy cheeks.

Joan never stirred. She slept on, peacefully at rest in her new refuge.

[CHAPTER III.]

A SEARCH.

DINNER in the hotel was served always at six o’clock. Though now somewhat late in the season, tourists to the number of fifty still mustered around the table of horseshoe shape. Considerable sensation was caused by the late appearance of that “interesting man, Mr. Rutherford,” with a dark-browed infant in his arms.

Joan was by this time exceedingly wide awake; and efforts had been made to detach her from George in time for dinner, Dulcibel proposing to remain upstairs in charge of the little creature, having a tray sent up for herself. But Joan saw matters differently. She refused to be won over under any pretence or inducement whatever. George had dressed for dinner while Joan was still asleep. The moment her black eyes opened, however, she was by his side. In vain Dulcibel petted and lectured, pleaded and scolded, offered kisses and offered cake. Kisses were spurned, and cake was rejected, and blandishments fell unheeded. Joan would not so much as look at Dulcibel. She seemed quite content while clutching George’s hand, or holding to his coat; but any serious attempt to separate the two raised shouts of such indignant remonstrance that Dulcibel’s hands went to her ears.

“There’s no time to fight the matter out now. She must come downstairs with us,” said George, more than half gratified.

So some fifty pairs of eyes were treated to the sight of Mr. Rutherford, marching in the rear of his slim, little wife, bearing a small “new arrival” in his strong arms; her black eyes surveying the company with a certain jealous defiance, and her black hair pressed confidingly against his tawny beard.

“Halloo, Mr. Rutherford! Fished up a mermaid in your day’s wanderings?” asked a friendly clergyman, Mr. Meredith, George’s opposite companion at table.

“Something like it,” responded George. “Another chair here, please! We shall have to break through the rules as to newcomers. This lady is too young to manage for herself.”

The waiter grinned and obeyed; but Joan declined the chair. She slid to the ground, and stood there solemnly, clutching George’s coat; her velvety eyes just above the level of the table. If anybody smiled at Joan, the response was an immediate frown; otherwise she seemed indifferent to her surroundings. Curiosity was evidently rife; and George briefly sketched, for the benefit of his near neighbors, the manner in which Joan had been found.

“I wasn’t far wrong. It’s a river-maid, not a mermaid!” said Mr. Meredith.

“It’s a very odd little mortal, anyhow,” the stout widow, Mrs. Tracy, remarked. She sat on the other side of the table, a few seats lower down. “What do you think of doing with her?”

“Put her to sleep on the sofa in our room,” said George.

“I am afraid your night’s rest will be broken. And then?”

“Find out to whom she belongs.”

“And if you cannot?”

“It is well never to start in an enterprise expecting failure,” said George.

“But still—”

“And this is not London.”

“Probably the friends are at least as anxious to discover the child as you can be to discover them,” said Mr. Meredith.

“Unless,” Mrs. Tracy observed—“unless somebody meant to leave it there.”

“Oh, impossible!” cried Dulcibel, from a constitutional instinct of contradiction. She had herself made the same suggestion, and Leo’s laughing face showed recollection of hearing her do so. “Such a little darling!”

Mrs. Tracy surveyed the small subject of discussion.

“Something just a degree vixenish about her, isn’t there?” she asked. “I’m not quite sure that I should care to deal with that nature by-and-by.”

“Oh, but so lovable!” said Dulcibel. “Look at her now with my husband!” And indeed the upward glance of those black eyes into the face of the big fair man to whom the little creature had attached herself could hardly have been surpassed in tenderness.

“Yes, that is quite charming,” assented Mrs. Tracy; “but—” and she shook her head—“but—”

Conversation drifted in other directions, and Joan was more or less forgotten. She stood so very still that forgetfulness was not difficult. George fed her now and then with scraps, as he might have fed a pet dog; and she consented to be so treated. A basin of bread and milk had been already disposed of upstairs, therefore more was not needed. If Leo, on Joan’s other side, offered anything, he met with the usual severe refusal.

Dinner over, and the move into the drawing-room made, Joan calmly climbed upon George’s knee, evidently satisfied that he had nothing better in life to do than to nurse her small self. Dulcibel remonstrated, but George would not turn the child away. He read the paper, with the dark head lying placidly on his shoulder; and when it was decided that Joan must go to bed George carried her upstairs.

“Just for once,” he said, half laughing; “we shall find her people to-morrow, poor wee mite!” There was a sound of regret in his voice. Somehow he did not wish to give her up.

A bed had been made on the sofa, and a nightdress of tiny dimensions lent by somebody. Joan was growing very sleepy once more, and made no objections to the removal of her frock, submitting so far to Dulcibel’s handling, while George sat down at a table to write a letter.

There, however, Joan made a stand. She stood, pouting, in her little red petticoats, with bare arms and shoulders. Evidently something was customary next, which she could not or would not explain, every suggestion being received with an indignant “No!” Finally Joan took the matter into her own hands, knelt down, shut her eyes, and said solemnly, with distinct utterance—

“‘Desuo, Dentle Shepherd, hear me,

Bress Thy nittle lamb to-night!’”

Recollection seemed to fail there, and no more words were forthcoming.

“Yes, darling—go on,” coaxed Dulcibel.

“Through the darkness be Thou near me—”

No; Joan refused to be prompted. She opened her eyes, frowned at Dulcibel, and scrambled to her feet.

“Is that all, Joan?” asked George.

“Dess,” Joan answered. She seemed to have an odd affection for the fourth letter of the alphabet.

“Did mother teach you that?” asked George.

No answer.

“Joan, did mother say good-bye when she went away from you to-day?” George inquired suddenly.

“Dess,” Joan replied again; and a look of unmistakable sadness came into the black eyes. “Dood-bye!”

Husband and wife looked at each other.

“That’s odd,” said Dulcibel.

“Didn’t mother mean to come back again to Joan?” asked George, bending down towards the child.

Again there was no reply.

“Joan, is mother gone?”

“Don!” Joan echoed.

“Mother—gone—where?” inquired George.

Joan only echoed “Don!” once more, and looked very sleepy.

“You won’t find out anything in that way Georgie dear,” said his wife. “I don’t believe Joan knows much more than we do ourselves.”

“Well, the sooner she is in bed the better,” said George.

* * * * * * *

Morning come, and Joan appeared at breakfast, fresh and rosy, still as George’s devoted attendant. He could not move an inch without her. Peals of laughter were evoked when she endeavored to place herself upon the same chair with her new friend. George laughed as heartily as any one, and Joan showed a sublime disdain of people’s opinions.

Breakfast over, a battle took place. Rather fortunately for George’s purposes, it had turned out a wet day. Inquiries about Joan were an immediate necessity, and there could be no doubt that they would be three times as rapid and efficient without Dulcibel to delay his steps. Rain came down in a continuous pelt, and she decided to remain indoors with Joan, while George and Leo sallied forth on their hunt.

But the parting of George from Joan was not quite an easy matter. Dulcibel coaxed and George reasoned without avail. Joan held on to his coat-tails like a vice. When at length he gently wrenched himself free from the little hands and vanished, shutting the door, Joan gave one fearful and prolonged yell of rage. Having thus let off steam, and relieved herself, she subsided into a corner of the drawing-room, with solemn disdain of everybody present, scorning all blandishments.

Lunch-time arrived, but not George or Leo. Dulcibel had scarcely passed so wearisome a day since her marriage. Hitherto her life had been as one continued honeymoon. She could almost have shed tears at her husband’s non-appearance, only she was ashamed.

Joan was by this time sufficiently hungry to consent to eat, and Dulcie found half an hour’s amusement in ministering to her wants. But, hunger once satisfied, Joan retreated again to the corner, presently dropping asleep there.

The afternoon hours crept by slowly, rain still falling in a ceaseless drench, George and Leo still absent.

Walking out, even for five minutes, was not to be thought of, Dulcibel being a person who caught cold easily. But being also a little person of restless tendencies, accustomed to a good deal of small change and excitement in everyday life, and not at all given to reading or needlework, she found it by no means easy to get through such a day. A year earlier she would have risked a wet ramble unhesitatingly, and probably would have laid herself up for a month, without much of after regret. Illness itself supplies a certain measure of satisfying excitement to some natures. But Dulcibel the wife, might not venture to do what Dulcibel the spinster could have done. The fear of her husband’s disapprobation was stronger than wilfulness.

So she staid indoors, and dipped listlessly into several books, and talked about nothing in particular with divers persons, and made several vain attempts upon Joan, and tried a few stitches of knitting now and then. And at length she took to standing at the window, gazing out forlornly upon the wet and dripping scene.

Presently she found Mr. Meredith at her side. He was a man in early middle life, pleasant-faced, and kind-mannered. Dulcibel involuntarily turned to him for sympathy.

“I can’t think why my husband does not come back,” she said.

“He will soon appear now, no doubt. Mr. Rutherford is not one to care much about weather, I should suppose.”

“If not, I suppose I may care for him,” said Dulcibel rather tartly.

“Just so. Quite right that you should,” said Mr. Meredith with intent to soothe. “No doubt, the inquiries about yonder little maid have taken longer than he expected.” Mr. Meredith glanced at Joan, coiled up still in her corner.

“I never saw such an unsociable child in my life,” said Dulcibel. “One can do nothing with her.”

“It requires patience. But the shyness will break down in time,” said Mr. Meredith, cheerfully. “That is to say, it would do so, if any delay occurred in finding her belongings.”

“Shyness! It is all pride and temper,” said Dulcibel.

Mr. Meredith thought of certain utterances at dinner the evening before.

“Perhaps not altogether,” he said. “There may have been some fault in the training.”

“I have seen plenty of spoilt children, and they are not like this,” retorted Dulcibel. “I believe she is disagreeable by nature. Think of keeping to that corner, and refusing to speak civilly to anybody all day. It is quite unnatural. I hope we shall hear that her friends are found. There is no return for kindness shown to such a child.”

“Bad bargain, in short,” mused Mr. Meredith. “We don’t object to being repaid in full for our good deeds, do we?”

Dulcibel colored. “Now, how horrid you must have thought me, before you could say that!”

“No, indeed,” Mr. Meredith answered. “I fancy you, like many people, are better than your words.”

“But isn’t it natural to wish for a little love and gratitude in return, when one gives out to people?”

“Quite natural, and not wrong; only sometimes one has to put aside the wish, and rise to a higher level—to ‘do good, hoping for nothing again,’” Mr. Meredith said, looking towards the small person in question. He added softly—“‘Freely ye have received, freely give.’”

Dulcibel sighed.

“Well; we have not given much yet,” she said. “The child’s friends ought to have passed an anxious night. But I begin to think they have left her on purpose. Children are forsaken sometimes.”

“The position in which she was found hardly gives one that impression,” said Mr. Meredith.

Another hour passed, and at length, not long before dinner, two dripping figures appeared within the front door. Dulcibel ran eagerly out of the drawing-room, regardless of certain smiles caused there by her impulsive movement. But Joan’s rush of welcome was even quicker than Dulcibel’s. George put them both off with his hands.

“No; don’t touch me; I am soaked,” he said in his hearty voice. “We have had a day of it, I assure you. Couldn’t possibly come back to lunch, or we would have done so, Dulcie; but I knew you would understand. Well, Joan, have you been good?”

“Have you found out anything, Georgie?” asked Dulcibel with eagerness.

“Yes; I will tell you presently,” said George, in rather a grave tone. “Nothing certain yet, but very probable. No, Joan, you must stand off. I can’t be handled till I am dry.” In a lower voice George added—“Somehow it does not look as if the non-return of the mother could have been accidental.”

“I told you so!” Dulcibel averred.

George imagined that she had “told him” exactly the opposite, but he wisely entered on no discussion.

[CHAPTER IV.]

JOAN’S MOTHER.

“NOW, Georgie, please,” Dulcibel said beseechingly, when her husband stood before her, dry-clothed once more, Joan vigorously kissing one of his hands. “Please tell me everything quickly. The dinner-bell will sound in a few minutes.”

“We may as well sit down meantime,” George said. “That will do, Joan; that’s enough. Hardly time to tell you everything now, I am afraid; but the gist of the matter is that I have found—”

“Joan’s mother!” cried Dulcibel.

“Somebody who may be her mother. A sick woman—a lady—has been lodging in a certain cottage for three weeks past, with a little child.”

“Joan, of course.”

“The child was there until yesterday—”

“Of course!” repeated Dulcibel.

“Not quite of course yet. The mother took the child away yesterday morning, and was absent some hours. When she came back she was alone, and so ill as to take to her bed. She had left the little one with friends.”

“And you believe that tale?”

“There seems no doubt about the fact of her illness. The cottager, a nice, sensible woman, spoke kindly of her, and with evident pity. She said the lady seemed poor, and in much trouble.”

A quiet valley

“Now tell me what is your name?”

A QUIET VALLEY

BY

AGNES GIBERNE,

AUTHOR OF

“GWENDOLINE; OR, HALCOTS AND HALCOMBES,” “THROUGH THE LINN,”

“NUMBER THREE WINIFRED PLACE,” ETC.

REVISED BY THE COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION.

PHILADELPHIA:

THE AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,

1122 CHESTNUT STREET.

NEW YORK: 8 AND 10 BIBLE HOUSE.

CONTENTS.

A QUIET VALLEY.