"News! Madam and my lady! Great news from the war!" exclaimed Will, throwing himself from his smoking horse at the hall door. "There has been a great victory, and lord is safe and well! Here are letters come from him. The man who brought them rode post from London, and his horse was wearied out as well as himself." "Thank God, my dear Lucy, your father is well!" said Cousin Deborah, glancing at the hurried note. "Sit down and hear what he says." Lucy was glad to sit down, for her limbs trembled too much to support her. The letter was dated at Blenheim, the fourteenth day of August, 1704, and was as follows:— "MY DEAREST DAUGHTER:—Yesterday being Sunday, the thirteenth day of August, 1704, was fought the most dreadful battle I have ever yet seen, resulting in a complete victory on our part over the French and their allies. The carnage on both sides has been dreadful, but we have suffered much less than the French. I have got off with a sabre cut on my forehead, which is no great matter, but will not improve my beauty. "Of the men who went with me from Stanton-Corbet, two or three are hurt slightly, but none are killed save poor Jack Martin, who was shot down close at my elbow, while behaving with great bravery. Tell his mother from me that her son was a good soldier and a good man, and I make no doubt is now in a better place. And do you, my love, see that both she and poor Anne have proper mourning at my expense. The good widow must henceforth have her cottage rent-free and a pension. "I will write more particularly in a day or two. Such another Sunday I trust never to pass. It would break your heart to see the village of Blenheim, so neat and thriving a few days ago, now a smoking mass of ruins, strewed with dead and disfigured corpses, and the poor inhabitants scattered no one knows where, all their little property destroyed or ruined. I can write no more now, as I must sent off this within an hour. Let the messenger have good entertainment." Tears of mingled thankfulness and grief streamed down Lucy's cheeks. "Oh, I am so glad dear papa is safe! But poor, poor widow Martin, and poor Anne! She was so certain that Jack would come safe out of the war because the gipsy said so." "Yes, and at the very time she was saying the words, poor Jack was lying still and cold in his bloody grave," said Cousin Deborah. "You see this battle happened a week ago last Sunday. And your father, whom she threatened so, is safe and well, and the thimble is found. So much for the gipsy's predictions." "But, cousin, it is very odd about the thimble!" said Lucy, diverted from her letter for a moment. "Where did you find it?" "Standing on the table beside the box." "I do not understand it," repeated Lucy. "It certainly was lying there under the aloe-leaves when I went out with you that day."