The forsaken Annet consoled herself with careering about, taking a last leave of her beloved steed—-a mangy-looking pony-—and performing various freaks with it, then singing a truculent song of revenge, in pursuance of which she hid herself to await the bridal procession.  And as the bride came on, among her attendants Dolores detected unmistakably those eyes of Gerald’s!  She squeezed Miss Hackett’s hand, and saw little more of the final catastrophe.  Somehow the bride was stabbed, and fell screaming, while the fair Annet executed a war dance, but what became of her was uncertain.  All Dolores knew was, that Ludmilla was there!  She had recognized not only the eyes, but the air and figure.

When they got free of the crowd, which was a great distress to poor Miss Hackett, Dolores said—-

“Yes, it is that poor girl!  She must be saved!”

“How?  What can you do?”

“I shall telegraph to her brother.  You will help me, Miss Hackett?”

“But-—what-—who is her brother?” said Miss Hackett, expecting to hear he was a carpenter perhaps, or at least a clerk.

“Mr. Underwood of Vale Leston-—Gerald Underwood,” answered Dolores.  “His father made an unfortunate marriage with a singer.  She really is his half-sister, and I promised to do all I could to help him to find her and save her.  He is at Oxford.  I shall telegraph to him the first thing to-morrow.”

There was nothing in this to object to, and Miss Hackett would not be persuaded not to see her to the door of Miss Vincent’s lodgings, though lengthening her own walk—-alone, a thing more terrible to her old-fashioned mind than to that of her companion.

Dolores wrote her telegram—-

“Dolores Mohun, Valentia, Silverton, to Gerald Underwood, Trinity College, Oxford.  Ludmilla here.  Circus.  Come.”

She sent it with the more confidence that she had received a letter from her father with a sort of conditional consent to her engagement to Gerald, so that she could, if needful, avow herself betrothed to him; though her usual reticence made her unwilling to put the matter forward in the present condition of affairs.  She went out to the post-office at the first moment when she could hope to find the telegraph office at work, and just as she had turned from it, she met a girl in a dark, long, ill-fitting jacket and black hat, with a basket in her hand.

“Lydia!” exclaimed Dolores, using the old Rockquay name.

“Miss Dolores!” she cried.

“Yes, yes.  You are here!  I saw you last night.”

“Me!  Me!  Oh, I am ashamed that you did.  Don’t tell Mr. Flight.”

There were tears starting to her eyes.

“Can I do anything for you?”

“No—-no.  Oh, if you could!  But they have apprenticed me.”

“Who have?”

“My mother and Mr. O’Leary.”

“Are they here?”

“Yes.  They wanted money-—apprenticed me to this Jellicoe!  I must make haste.  They sent me out to take something to the wash, and buy some fresh butter.  They must not guess that I have met any one.”