“The access is over,” she mentally ejaculated; “but I must get him away before the fit returns.”  “You had better go now, Richard,” she added aloud, and touching his arm, “I will answer for your sister’s restoration.  An opiate will produce sleep, and if possible, she shall return to Middleton to-day.”

“If I go, Alizon must go with me,” said Dorothy.  “Well, well, I will not thwart your desires,” rejoined Mistress Nutter.  And she made a sign to Richard to depart.

The young man pressed his sister’s hand, bade a tender farewell to Alizon, and, infinitely relieved by the improvement which had taken place in the former, and which he firmly believed would speedily lead to her entire restoration, descended to the entrance-hall, where he found Sir Ralph and Parson Dewhurst, who told him that Nicholas and Potts were in the court-yard, and impatient to set out.

Shouts of laughter saluted the ears of the trio as they descended the steps.  The cause of the merriment was speedily explained when they looked towards the stables, and beheld Potts struggling for mastery with a stout Welsh pony, who showed every disposition, by plunging, kicking, and rearing, to remove him from his seat, though without success, for the attorney was not quite such a contemptible horseman as might be imagined.  A wicked-looking little fellow was Flint, with a rough, rusty-black coat, a thick tail that swept the ground, a mane to match, and an eye of mixed fire and cunning.  When brought forth he had allowed Potts to mount him quietly enough; but no sooner was the attorney comfortably in possession, than he was served with a notice of ejectment.  Down went Flint’s head and up went his heels; while on the next instant he was rearing aloft, with his fore-feet beating the air, so nearly perpendicular, that the chances seemed in favour of his coming down on his back.  Then he whirled suddenly round, shook himself violently, threatened to roll over, and performed antics of the most extraordinary kind, to the dismay of his rider, but to the infinite amusement of the spectators, who were ready to split their sides with laughter—­indeed, tears fairly streamed down the squire’s cheeks.  However, when Sir Ralph appeared, it was thought desirable to put an end to the fun; and Peter, the groom, advanced to seize the restive little animal’s bridle, but, eluding the grasp, Flint started off at full gallop, and, accompanied by the two blood-hounds, careered round the court-yard, as if running in a ring.  Vainly did poor Potts tug at the bridle.  Flint, having the bit firmly between his teeth, defied his utmost efforts.  Away he went with the hounds at his heels, as if, said Nicholas, “the devil were behind him.”  Though annoyed and angry, Sir Ralph could not help laughing at the ridiculous scene, and even a smile crossed Parson Dewhurst’s grave countenance as Flint and his rider scampered madly past them.  Sir Ralph called to the grooms, and attempts were instantly made to check the furious pony’s career; but he baffled them all, swerving suddenly round when an endeavour was made to intercept him, leaping over any trifling obstacle, and occasionally charging any one who stood in his path.  What with the grooms running hither and thither, vociferating and swearing, the barking and springing of the hounds, the yelping of lesser dogs, and the screaming of poultry, the whole yard was in a state of uproar and confusion.