The great idle moon lolling over the hills cast Fly-by-night’s shadow before her. She had warmed to her work now, and was going like a dream under the hand of a master and lover of horses. “Oh! look at the moon,” sighed Violet, turning for a moment in her seat and looking backwards. “I wish this could last forever.” “I say,” cried out Dicky, heedless of this wish, which the gods no doubt had overheard, “the cart’s going a bit rocky. Anything wrong with it, do you think, Patsy?” “I hope not, sir,” said Patsy. “I heard Dan, the coachman say something to Larry about wan of the ‘hubs.’” “What did he say?” asked Mr Fanshawe. “He was going across the yard wid a bucket of water, and Larry was clanin’ the cart, and Dan, he says, ‘Larry,’ says he, ‘what are you doin’?’ ‘Clanin’ the cart,’ says Larry. ‘And what are you clanin’ it for?’ he asks. ‘To make it tidy,’ says Larry. ‘Sure, get off to some other job,’ says Dan. ‘The ould cart has to go to the coach-builders for there’s a crack in that “hub” you could stick your nose in; and where’s your eyes? says he; ‘get off and be doin’ your harness, and let the coach-builders clane the trap if it’s worth clanin’, for it’s my opinion, he says, ‘it ought to have been condimned long ago. Lighting fires is all it’s fit for.’” “Good heavens!” said Mr Fanshawe. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” “Sure, I trusted Larry, sir,” said Patsy. “He knows more thin Dan about the traps and the harness any day in the——Holy Mary! there’s the wheel goin’.” “Hold tight,” cried Mr Fanshawe. “We’re over,” cried Patsy. A perfectly superfluous statement delivered from the ditch where he lay with Miss Lestrange’s dressing-bag on his chest. You could have heard the sound of the smash half a mile down the silent road. -------------- “I’m all right,” murmured the girl. “Where am I? O Dicky!” She was sitting on the road against the hedge bank. The broken-down dogcart with one wheel off lay before her, also Fly-by-night on her side, with Patsy seated on the mare’s head. “It’s all right,” said Mr Fanshawe, “it’s only a smash up. Nothing matters as long as you aren’t hurt.” She gazed at the ruins before her, and took in the whole extent of the catastrophe, as did Mr Fanshawe. The position was horrible. Any moment the pursuer might arrive, and then what was to be done? He could not fight his uncle, there was nothing possible except ignominious capitulation. When you are successful in an affair of this kind you are an object of admiration to every one, especially the women. To run away with a woman is the only excuse for a man ever running away; let the woman be subtracted and the excuse is gone, and the man is an object of derision to every one—especially the women. Miss Lestrange felt this as keenly as her companion. “Dicky,” she cried, “I’m all right. Do something. Get the horse up. Is the dogcart _quite_ broken?”