“Verehas we hare honly servants of the ke veen;” suggested No. 2, hashing his mistress’s English.

“Stow your gab, Bill, and mizzle.  Let the captain thank the lady.  Good-day, marm.”

“Oh, my poor friend, what language! and my ill advice threw you into their company!”

Captain Kenealy told her, in his brief way, that the circumstance was one of no import, except in so far as it had impeded his discharge of his duty to her.  He then mounted the pony, which had been waiting for him more than half an hour.

“But it is five o’clock,” said Lucy; “you will be too late for dinner.”

“Dinner be dem—­d,” drawled the man of action, and rode off like a flash.

“It is to be, then,” said Lucy, and her heart ebbed.  It had ebbed and flowed a good many times in the last hour or two.

Captain Kenealy reappeared in the middle of dinner.  Lucy scanned his face, but it was like the outside of a copy-book, and she was on thorns.  Being too late, he lost his place near her at dinner, and she could not whisper to him.  However, when the ladies retired he opened the door, and Lucy let fall a word at his feet:  “Come up before the rest.”

Acting on this order, Kenealy came up, and found Lucy playing sad tunes softly on the piano and Mrs. Bazalgette absent.  She was trying something on upstairs.  He gave Lucy a note from Mrs. Wilson.  She opened it, and the joyful color suffused her cheek, and she held out her hand to him; but, as she turned her head away mighty prettily at the same time, she did not see the captain was proffering a second document, and she was a little surprised when, instead of a warm grasp, all friendship and no love, a piece of paper was shoved into her delicate palm.  She took it; looked first at Kenealy, then at it, and was sore puzzled.

The document was in Kenealy’s handwriting, and at first Lucy thought it must be intended as a mere specimen of caligraphy; for not only was it beautifully written, but in letters of various sizes.  There were three gigantic vowels, I. O. U. There were little wee notifications of time and place, and other particulars of medium size.  The general result was that Henry Kenealy O’d Lucy Fountain ninety pound for value received per loan.  Lucy caught at the meaning.  “But, my dear friend,” said she, innocently, “you mistake.  I did not lend it you; I meant to give it you.  Will you not accept it?  Are we not friends?”

“Much oblaiged.  Couldn’t do it.  Dishonable.”

“Oh, pray do not let me wound your pride.  I know what it is to have one’s pride wounded; call it a loan if you wish.  But, dear friend, what am I to do with this?”

“When you want the money, order your man of business to present it to me, and, if I don’t pay, lock me up, for I shall deserve it.”

“I think I understand.  This is a memorandum—­a sort of reminder.”

“Yaas.”

“Then clearly I am not the person to whom it should be given.  No; if you want to be reminded of this mighty matter, put this in your desk; if it gets into mine, you will never see it again; I will give you fair warning.  There—­hide it—­quick—­here they come.”