Eve knew what was in the man’s blood.  She sat trembling at home till she could bear it no longer.  She put on her bonnet, and sallied out on the road to Royston, determined to stop the carriage, profess to have business at Royston, and take a seat beside Mr. Fountain.  She felt that the very sight of her might prevent David from committing any great rashness or folly.  On reaching the high road, she observed a fresh track of narrow wheels, that her rustic experience told her could only be those of a four-wheeled carriage, and, making inquiries, she found she was too late; carriage and riders had gone on before.

Her heart sank.  Too late by a few minutes; but somehow she could not turn back.  She walked as fast as she could after the gay cavalcade, a prey to one of those female anxieties we have all laughed at as extravagant, proved unreasonable, and sometimes found prophetic.

Meantime Lucy and Mr. Talboys cantered gayly along; Mr. Fountain rolled after in a phaeton; the traveling carriage came last.  Lucy was in spirits; motion enlivens us all, but especially such of us as are women.  She had also another cause for cheerfulness, that may perhaps transpire.  Her two companions and unconscious dependents were governed by her mood.  She made them larks to-day, as she had owls for some weeks past, last night excepted.  She would fall back every now and then, and let Uncle Fountain pass her; then come dashing up to him, and either pull up short with a piece of solemn information like an aid-de-camp from headquarters, or pass him shooting a shaft of raillery back into his chariot, whereat he would rise with mock fury and yell a repartee after her.  Fountain found himself good company—­Talboys himself.  It was not the lady; oh dear no! it never is.

At last all seemed so bright, and Mr. Talboys found himself so agreeable, that he suddenly recalled his high resolve not to pop in a county desecrated by Dodds.  “I’ll risk it now,” said he; and he rode back to Fountain and imparted his intention, and the senior nearly bounded off his seat.  He sounded the charge in a stage whisper, because of the coachman, “At her at once!”

“Secret conference? hum!” said Lucy, twisting her pony, and looking slyly back.

Mr. Talboys rejoined her, and, after a while, began in strange, melodious accents, “You will leave a blank—­”

“Shall we canter?” said Lucy, gayly, and off went the pony.  Talboys followed, and at the next hill resumed the sentimental cadence.

“You will leave a sad blank here, Miss Fountain.”

“No greater than I found,” replied the lady, innocently (?).  “Oh, dear!” she cried, with sudden interest, “I am afraid I have dropped my comb.”  She felt under her hat. [No, viper, you have not dropped your comb, but you are feeling for a large black pin with a head to it.  There, you have found it, and taken it out of your hair, and got it hid in your hand.  What is that for?]