Poor Lucy could hardly believe her eyes when the manufacturer laid down the bank-notes before her.  She pinned them carefully into the bosom of her frock, and hastened to tell Dame Damerel that all their troubles were over.  The old woman’s eyes glistened as Lucy unpinned her treasure and laid it on the table.  It was counted, re-counted, and wondered over.  What was to be done with it till the rest was procured?  Who would take care of it?

This delight was, however, somewhat damped when they came to consider that, putting aside all uncertainty about his fate, it would be at least six months before Luke’s discharge could reach him; then an additional half-year would elapse ere he could get back.  It was a long time to wait.  ‘Never mind, dear mother,’ said Lucy, ’the time that has passed since he left seems scarcely a year, although it is three.  It is only because the twelvemonth is to come that it appears to be so long.  Still,’ she said, considering and heaving a deep sigh, ’we have not got his discharge yet, and great as this sum is, some more must be earned to make up the rest.’

‘Leave that to me,’ returned Mrs Damerel.

Next day, when Lucy returned from the post-office, where she had taken a letter for Luke, she found another lying on the table, in Larkin’s handwriting.  On reading the superscription, she found it was addressed to the War-Office.  ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Damerel in answer to her inquiring glances, ’it is all done now, Lucy; and this letter is to be sent off to tell the great people that we can have the money ready to buy our dear Luke off again.’

Larkin had, in truth, gladly supplied the small sum which was deficient.  The letter was sent, and in less than a week an immense dispatch found its way to the village, which excited universal wonderment.  It was a great oblong missive, with the words ’On His Majesty’s Service’ printed at the top.  It had an enormous seal, and was directed to ‘Mr Thomas Larkin.’  A crowd of idlers followed the postman with this epistolary phenomenon, in the hope of getting some knowledge of its contents.  Tom, however, when he read it, coolly put it into his pocket, and walked to the cottage without saying a word to anybody.

This letter seemed like a climax to Lucy’s good-fortune, and ’begged to inform Mr Larkin that Corporal Farrier Damerel was on his way to England to superintend the selection of troop-horses, and that his discharge should be made out when he had arrived and performed that duty.’

Scarcely a month after the arrival of the official dispatch, a corporal of dragoons was seen trespassing on Farmer Modbury’s fields, by crossing them in great haste without any regard to the footpaths.  An old ploughman roughly warned him off, threatening personal ejection.  ‘What, Roger Dart!’ exclaimed the soldier, ’is this the way you welcome a man home after a long absence?’ The ploughman stared, and said he did not know him.  ‘Do you know,’ rejoined the corporal with a trembling voice and anxious countenance—­’do you know Lucy Fennel?’