"Tod," I said, as we went out of the tent, "I don't think they are people to steal children." "Who's to know what the man would do?" retorted Tod. "A man with a dying child at home wouldn't be likely to harm another." Tod did not answer. He stood still a moment, deliberating which way to go. Back to Alcester?--where a conveyance might be found to take us home, for the fatigue was telling on both of us, now that disappointment was prolonged, and I, at least, could hardly put one foot before another. Or down to the high-road, and run the chance of some vehicle overtaking us? Or keep on amidst these fields and hedgerows, which would lead us home by a rather nearer way, but without chance of a lift? Tod made up his mind, and struck down the lane the way we had come up. He was on first, and I saw him suddenly halt, and turn to me. "Look here, Johnny!" I looked as well as I could for the night and the trees, and saw something on the ground. A man had sunk down there, apparently from exhaustion. His face was a tawny white, just like the dead child's. A stout stick and the bundles of skewers lay beside him. "Do you see the fellow, Johnny? It is the gipsy." "Has he fainted?" "Fainted, or shamming it. I wonder if there's any water about?" But the man opened his eyes; perhaps the sound of voices revived him. After looking at us a minute or two, he raised himself slowly on his elbow. Tod--the one thought uppermost in his mind--said something about Lena. "The child's found, master!" Tod seemed to give a leap. I know his heart did. "Found!" "Been safe at home this long while." "Who found her?" "'Twas me, master." "Where was she?" asked Tod, his tone softening. "Let us hear about it." "I was making back for the town" (we supposed he meant Alcester), "and missed the way; land about here's strange to me. A-going through a bit of a groove, which didn't seem as if it was leading to nowhere, I heard a child crying. There was the little thing tied to a tree, stripped, and----" "Stripped!" roared Tod. "Stripped to the skin, sir, save for a dirty old skirt that was tied round her. A woman carried her off to that spot, she told me, robbed her of her clothes, and left her there. Knowing where she must ha' been stole from--through you're accusing _me_ of it, master--I untied her to lead her home, but her feet warn't used to the rough ground, and I made shift to carry her. A matter of two miles it were, and I be not good for much. I left her at home safe, and set off back. That's all, master." "What were you doing here?" asked Tod, as considerately as if he had been speaking to a lord. "Resting?" "I suppose I fell, master. I don't remember nothing, since I was tramping up the lane, till your voices came. I've had naught inside my lips to-day but a drink o' water." "Did they give you nothing to eat at the house when you took the child home?"