Unable to speak, Lucy pointed down the towing-path, along which a horse was seen rushing wildly—­a figure pursuing it.  ’It was hitched up here—­he must have scrambled up by the gate!  Oh! mamma! mamma!  He has run after him, but oh!’

Mr. Ferrars gave Lucy’s arm a squeeze, a hint not to augment the horror.  Something he said of ‘Let me—­and you had better—­’ but Albinia heard nothing, and was only bent on pressing forward.

The canal and path took a wide sweep round the meadow, and the horse was still in sight, galloping at full speed, with a small heap on its back, as they trusted, but the rapid motion, and their eyes strained and misty with alarm, caused an agony of uncertainty.

Albinia pointed across the meadows in anguish at not being able to make herself understood, and hoarsely said, ‘The gate!’

Mr. Ferrars caught her meaning, and the next moment had leaped over the gutter, and splashed into the water meadow, but in utter hopelessness of being beforehand with the runaway steed!  How could that gate be other than fatal?  The horse was nearing it—­the pursuer far behind—­Mr. Ferrars not half way over the fields.

There was a loud cry from Lucy.—­’He is caught! caught!’

A loud shout came back, was caught up, and sent on by both the pursuers, ‘All right!’

Albinia had stood in an almost annihilation of conscious feeling.  Even when her brother strode back to her repeating ’All safe, thanks be to God,’ she neither spoke nor relaxed that intensity of watching.  A few seconds more, and she sprang forward again as the horse was led up by a young man at his side; and on his back, laughing and chattering, sat Master Maurice.  Algernon Dusautoy strode a few steps behind, somewhat aggrieved, but that no one saw.

The elder Maurice lifted down the younger one, who, as he was clasped by his mother, exclaimed, ’Oh! mamma, Bamfylde went so fast!  I am to ride home again!  He said so—­he’s my cousin!’

Albinia scarcely heard; her brother however had turned to thank the stranger for her, and exclaimed, ‘I should say you were an O’More.’

‘I’m Ulick, from the Loughside Lodge,’ was the answer.  ’Is cousin Winifred here?’

‘No, this is my sister, Mrs. Kendal, but—­’

Albinia held out her hand, and grasped his; ’I can’t—­Maurice, speak,’ she said.

The little Maurice persisted in his demand to be remounted for the twelve yards to their own gate, but nobody heard him; his uncle was saying a few words of explanation to the stranger, and Algernon Dusautoy was enunciating something intended as a gracious reception of the apologies which no one was making.  All Albinia thought of was that the little unruly hand was warm and struggling, prisoned in her own; all her brother cared for was to have her safely at home.  He led her across the bridge, and into the garden, where they met Mr. Kendal, who had taken alarm from her