nd down the garden path; he foresaw that
he would have to yield, and it made him very angry.

"Nonsense, my dear," he said testily; "people are much too fond of
talking about Heaven doing this and that. That ill-looking scamp of a
gypsy fellow hadn't much to do with Heaven, I fancy."

"Heaven chooses its own instruments," said Priscilla quietly; and Mr
Vallance made no answer, for he had said that very same thing in his
last sermon.

"I'll have those tramps looked after at any rate," he said, rousing
himself with sudden energy. "I'll send Joe one way, and drive the other
way myself in the pony-cart. They can't have got far yet."

He hurried out of the garden, and Mrs Vallance was left alone with her
prize. It was almost too good to be true. Already her mind was busy
with arrangements for the baby's comfort and making plans for her
future--the blue-room looking into the garden for the nursery, and the
blacksmith's eldest daughter for a nurse-maid, and some little white
frocks and pinafores made; and what should she be called? Some simple
name would do. Mary, perhaps. And then suddenly Mrs Vallance checked
herself.

"What a foolish woman I am!" she said. "Very likely those horrible
people will be found, and I shall have to give her up. But nothing
shall induce me to believe that she belongs to them."

She kissed the child, carried her into the house, and fed her with some
bread and milk, after which baby soon fell into a sound sleep. Mrs
Vallance laid her on the sofa, and sat near with her work, but she could
not settle at all quietly to it. Every moment she got up to look out of
the window, or to listen to some sound which might be Austin coming back
triumphant with news of the gypsies. But the day went on and nothing
happened. The vicarage was full of suppressed excitement, the maids
whispered softly together, and came creeping in at intervals to look at
the beautiful child, who still clasped the little clog in her hands.

"Yonder's a queer little shoe, mum," said the cook, "quite a cur'osity."

"I think it's a sort of toy," replied Mrs Vallance, for she had never
been to the north of England and had never seen a clog.

"Bless her pretty little 'art!" said the cook, and went away.

It was evening when Mr Vallance returned, hot, tired, and vexed in
spirit. His wife ran out to meet him at the gate, having first sent the
child upstairs.

"No trace whatever," he said in a dejected voice.

"Dear