Now eating pigeon-pie is not in itself a suspicious act, but ladies are so sharp.  Mrs. Bazalgette said to herself, “This creature alone is not a bit surprised (for Bazalgette is fibbing); why is this creature not surprised? humph!  Captain Kenealy,” said she, in honeyed tones, “what would you advise us to do?”

“Advertaize,” drawled the captain, as cool as a cucumber.

“Advertise?  What! publish her name?”

“No, no names.  I’ll tell you;” and he proceeded to drawl out very slowly, from memory, the following advertisement.  N. B.—­The captain was a great reader of advertisements, and of little else.

“WANDERAA, RETARN.

“If L. F. will retarn—­to her afflicted—­relatives—­she shall be received with open aams.  And shall be forgotten and forgiven—­and reunaited affection shall solace every wound.”

“That is the style.  It always brings ’em back—­dayvilish good paie—­have some moa.”

Mr. Fountain and Mrs. Bazalgette raised an outcry against the captain’s advice, and, when the table was calm again, Mrs. Bazalgette surprised them all by fixing her eyes on Kenealy, and saying quietly, “You know where she is.”  She added more excitedly:  “Now don’t deny it.  On your honor, sir, have you no idea where my niece is?”

“Upon my honah, I have an idea.”

“Then tell me.”

“I’d rayther not.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to tell me in private?”

“No; prefer not to tell at all.”

Then the whole table opened on him, and appealed to his manly feeling, his sense of hospitality, his humanity—­to gratify their curiosity.

Kenealy stretched himself out from the waist downward, and delivered himself thus, with a double infusion of his drawl:—­

“See yah all dem—­d first.”

At noon on the same day, by the interference of Mrs. Bazalgette, the
British army was swelled with Kenealy, captain of horse.

The whole day passed, and Lucy’s retreat was not yet discovered.  But more than one hunter was hemming her in.

The next day, being the second after her elopement with her nurse, at eleven in the forenoon, Lucy and Mrs. Wilson sat in the little parlor working.  Mrs. Wilson had seen the poultry fed, the butter churned, and the pudding safe in the pot, and her mind was at ease for a good hour to come, so she sat quiet and peaceful.  Lucy, too, was at peace.  Her eye was clear; and her color coming back; she was not bursting with happiness, for there was a sweet pensiveness mixed with her sweet tranquillity; but she looked every now and then smiling from her work up at Mrs. Wilson, and the dame kept looking at her with a motherly joy caused by her bare presence on that hearth.  Lucy basked in these maternal glances.  At last she said:  “Nurse.”

“My dear?”

“If you had never done anything for me, still I should know you loved me.”

“Should ye, now?”