A Pair of Clogs | Page 9

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 me!" exclaimed Priscilla, trying not to look too pleased, and just
then a casement-window above their heads was thrown open, a
white-capped head was thrust out, and an excited voice called out,
"Ma'am! Ma'am!"

"Well, what?" said Mrs Vallance, looking up alarmed.
"It's all come off, mum--the brown colour has--and she's got a skin as
white as a lily."
Mrs Vallance cast a glance of triumph at her husband, but forebore to
say anything, in consideration of his depressed condition; then she
rushed hurriedly upstairs to see the new wonder.
And thus began baby's life in her third home, and she brought nothing
of her own to it except her one little clog.

STORY ONE, CHAPTER 2.
WENSDALE.
The village of Wensdale was snugly shut in from the rest of the world
in a narrow valley. It had a little river flowing through it, and a little
grey church standing on a hill, and a rose-covered vicarage, a
blacksmith's forge, and a post-office. Further up the valley, where the
woods began, you could see the chimneys of the White House where
Squire Chelwood lived, and about three miles further on still was
Dorminster, a good-sized market-town. But in Wensdale itself there
was only a handful of thatched cottages scattered about here and there
round the vicarage. Life was so regular and quiet there that you might
almost tell the time without looking at the clock. When you heard cling,
clang, from the blacksmith's forge, and quack, quack, from the army of
ducks waddling down to the river, it was five o'clock. Ding, dong from
the church-tower, and the tall figure of Mr Vallance climbing the hill to
read prayers--eight o'clock. So on throughout the day until evening
came, and you knew that soon after the cows had gone lowing through
the village, and the ducks had taken their way to bed in a long uneven
line, that perfect silence would follow, deep and undisturbed.
In this quiet refuge Maggie's baby grew up for seven years, under the
name of Mary Vallance. She was now nine years old. As she grew the
qualities which had shown themselves as a baby, and made Perrin call

her as "orty as a duchess," grew also, though they were kept in check
by wise and loving influences. To command seemed more natural to
her than to obey, and far more pleasant, and this often caused trouble to
herself and others. True, nothing could be more thorough than her
repentance after a fit of naughtiness, for she was a very affectionate
child; but then she was quite ready on the next occasion to repeat the
offence--as ready as Mrs Vallance was to forgive it. Mary was vain, too,
as well as wilful; but this was not astonishing, for from a very little
child she had heard the most open remarks about her beauty. Wensdale
was a small place, but there were not wanting unwise people in it, who
imagined that their nods and winks and whispers of admiration were
unnoticed by the child. A great mistake. No one could be quicker than
Mary to see them, to give her little neck a prouder turn, and to toss
back her glittering hair self-consciously. So she knew by the time she
was nine years old that she had beautiful hair and lovely eyes, and a
skin like milk--that she walked gracefully, and that her feet and hands
were smaller and prettier than Agatha Chelwood's. All this
strengthened a way she had of ordering her companions about
imperiously, as though she had a right to command. "No common
child," she often heard people say, and by