On this hint David lifted her like a child, _malgre_ a little squeak she thought it well to utter, and put her in the saddle again. She thanked him in a low, murmuring voice. She then plied David with a host of questions. “How came he so far from home?” “Why had he deserted them all day?” David hung his head, and did not answer. Lucy came to his relief: “It would be as well if you would make him promise to be at home in time for dinner; and, by the way, I have a favor to ask of you, Mr. Dodd.” “A favor to ask of me?!” “Oh, you know we all make demands upon your good-nature in turn.” “That is true,” said La Bazalgette, tenderly. “I don't know what will become of us all when he goes.” Lucy then explained “that the masked ball suggested by Mr. Talboys' beautiful dresses was to be very soon, and she wanted Mr. Dodd to practice quadrilles and waltzes with her; it will be so much better with the violin and piano than with a piano alone, and you are such an excellent timist--will you, Mr. Dodd?” “That I will,” said David, his eyes sparkling with delight; “thank you.” “Then, as I shall practice before the gentlemen join us, and it is four o'clock now, had you not better turn your back on the sea, and make the best of your way home?” “I will be there almost as soon as you.” “Indeed! what, on foot, and we on horseback?” “Ay; but I can steer in the wind's eye.” “Aunt, Mr. Dodd proposes a race home.” “With all my heart. How much start are we to give him?” “None at all,” said David; “are you ready? Then give way,” and he started down the hill at a killing pace. The equestrians were obliged to walk down the hill, and when they reached the bottom David was going as the crow flies across some meadows half a mile ahead. A good canter soon brought them on a line with him, but every now and then the turns of the road and the hills gave him an advantage. Lucy, naturally kind-hearted, would have relaxed her pace to make the race more equal, but Talboys urged her on; and as a horse is, after all, a faster animal than a sailor, they rode in at the front gate while David was still two fields off. “Come,” said Mrs. Bazalgette, regretfully, “we have beat him, poor fellow, but we won't go in till we see what has become of him.” As they loitered on the lawn, Henry the footman came out with a salver, and on it reposed a soiled note. Henry presented it with demure obsequiousness, then retired grinning furtively. “What is this--a begging-letter? What a vile hand! Look, Lucy; did you ever? Why, it must be some pauper.” “Have a little mercy, aunt,” said Lucy, piteously; “that hand has been formed under my care and daily superintendence: it is Reginald's.” “Oh, that alters the case. What can the dear child have to say to me! Ah! the little wretch! Send the servants after him in every direction. Oh, who would be a mother!”