But the shepherd was master in his own home, and announced decidedly--
"Then I must go to-night, late as it is."
"And knock the parson up? It will be eleven o'clock before you get there. Sit down and get your supper, do, John, and we can talk about consulting him to-morrow."
"That won't do, Polly; either I must go to the rector to-night or you must promise to go to-morrow. Which is it to be?"
"There never was such a pig-headed man as you. If you set your mind on a thing there is no turning you. I suppose I shall have to go, or you'll be rushing off now, and I want my supper. One thing I am sure of, John, and that is, the baby belongs to rich people, and, I think, to some nobleman, for all the things have a coronet on them, and its clothes are all so fine."
"No, nor anything to give us the least idea who the child is. It has evidently been accustomed to luxury, though, and somehow I fancy it is a foreign child. I never saw any baby's clothes made as these are," said Mrs. Shelley.
A foreign child was an idea John Shelley could not accept so suddenly. His slow phlegmatic mind could not travel beyond his own country--scarcely beyond the Sussex downs.
"More likely to be one of the quality's children. They don't make their clothes as we do, I expect; but if you show Mr. Leslie that coronet he may be able to make something of it."
And so it was arranged that Mrs. Shelley should go the next day and consult the rector about their new-found treasure; but she fully made up her mind to use all the eloquence in her power to persuade Mr. Leslie to convince John it was plainly their duty to keep the baby which had been so mysteriously brought to them until its rightful owners claimed it.
The next morning John Shelley was up betimes, as, indeed, he always was; but it was shearing time, and he was unusually busy, and it was, moreover, Saturday, and he hoped, with the help of the men who went round the country shearing in the month of June, to finish his flock that evening, so taking his breakfast and dinner with him, he told Mrs. Shelley not to expect him back till the evening. Across the dewy meadows in the fresh June morning, the loveliest part of the day, went John Shelley, startling a skylark every now and then from the ground, from whence it rose carolling forth its matin song, gently at first, but louder and louder as it sprang higher and higher, until lost to sight, its glorious song still audible, though John Shelley was too much occupied with his own thoughts, and, perhaps, too much accustomed to the singing of the lark, to pay much attention to it. Even his dogs, Rover and Snap, failed to wake him from his meditation, until he reached the meadow where he had folded his sheep for the night, and then every thought, except whether the sheep were all safe, vanished from his mind as he stood counting them. A few words to the dogs explained his wishes that the shorn sheep were to be driven out and the unshorn left in the fold for the present; and then, after a great deal of barking on the part of the dogs, and shouting from the shepherd, and rushing and scrambling on the part of the sheep, their bells jingling a not unmusical accompaniment to the thrushes and blackbirds, which were pouring out their morning song in the adjoining copse, this manoeuvre was effected, and John led his shorn flock to the downs, walking in front with his crook in his hand, while the dogs brought up the rear, yelping and barking at the heels of any erring sheep that strayed outside the flock.