“Then why interrupt me, dear?—­began teasing him, and wanting to know the real reason he comes here.”

“The real reason?  What did the fool mean?”

“How can I tell, Arthur, any more than you?  Mr. Dodd evidently thought that some slur was meant on the purity of his friendship for you.”

“Shame! shame! oh!”

“I saw his anger rising; for Mr. Dodd, though not irritable, is passionate—­at least I think so.  I tried to smooth matters.  But no; Mr. Talboys persisted in putting this ungenerous question, when all of a sudden Mr. Dodd burst out, ’You wish to know why I love Arthur?  Because he is an orphan; and because an orphan finds a brother in every man who is worth the shoe-leather he stands in.  That is all the riddle, you lubber!!’ It was terribly rude; but oh!  Arthur, I must tell you your friend looked noble; he seemed to swell and rise to a giant as he spoke, and we all felt such little shrimps around him; and his lip trembled, and fire flashed from his eyes.  How you would have admired him then; and he swept out of the room, and left us for his little friend, who is worthy of it all, since he stands up for him against us all.  Arthur! why, he is crying! poor child! and do you think those words did not go to my heart as well?  I am an orphan, too.  Arthur, don’t cry, love! oh! oh! oh!”

Oh, magic of a word from a great heart!  Such a word, uncouth and simple, but hot from a manly bosom, pierced silk and broadcloth as if they had been calico and fustian, and made a fashionable young lady and a bold school-boy take hands and cry together.  But such sweet tears dry quickly; they dry almost as they flow.

“Hallo!” cried the mercurial prince; “a sudden thought strikes me.  You kept running him down a minute ago.”

“Me?” said Lucy, with a look of amazement.

“Why, you know you did.  Now tell me what was that for.”

“To give you the pleasure of defending him.”

“Oh.  Hum?  Lucy, you are not quite so simple as the others think; sometimes I can’t make you out myself.”

“Is it possible?  Well, you know what to do, dear.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Why, read Miss Edgeworth over again.”

CHAPTER IX.

ARTHUR was bundled off to a private tutor, and the Dodds invited to Font Abbey no more, and Talboys dined there three days a week.  So far, David Dodd was in a poor and miserable position compared with Talboys, who visited Lucy at pleasure, and could close the very street door against a rival, real or imaginary.  But the street door is not the door of the heart, and David had one little advantage over his powerful antagonist; it was a slender one, and he owed it to a subtle source—­female tact.  His sister had long been aware of Talboys.  The gossip of the village had enlightened her as to his visits and supposed pretensions.  She had deliberately withheld this information from her brother, for she said to herself:  “Men always make such fools of themselves when they are jealous.  No.  David shan’t even know he has got a rival; if he did he would be wretched and live on thorns, and then he would get into passions, and either make a fool of himself in her eyes, or do something rash and be shown to the door.”