e up the rest.'

'Leave that to me,' returned Mrs Damerel.

Next day, when Lucy returned from the post-office, where she had
taken a letter for Luke, she found another lying on the table, in
Larkin's handwriting. On reading the superscription, she found it was
addressed to the War-Office. 'Yes,' said Mrs Damerel in answer to her
inquiring glances, 'it is all done now, Lucy; and this letter is to
be sent off to tell the great people that we can have the money ready
to buy our dear Luke off again.'

Larkin had, in truth, gladly supplied the small sum which was
deficient. The letter was sent, and in less than a week an immense
dispatch found its way to the village, which excited universal
wonderment. It was a great oblong missive, with the words 'On His
Majesty's Service' printed at the top. It had an enormous seal, and
was directed to 'Mr Thomas Larkin.' A crowd of idlers followed the
postman with this epistolary phenomenon, in the hope of getting some
knowledge of its contents. Tom, however, when he read it, coolly put
it into his pocket, and walked to the cottage without saying a word
to anybody.

This letter seemed like a climax to Lucy's good-fortune, and 'begged
to inform Mr Larkin that Corporal Farrier Damerel was on his way to
England to superintend the selection of troop-horses, and that his
discharge should be made out when he had arrived and performed that
duty.'

Scarcely a month after the arrival of the official dispatch, a
corporal of dragoons was seen trespassing on Farmer Modbury's fields,
by crossing them in great haste without any regard to the footpaths.
An old ploughman roughly warned him off, threatening personal
ejection. 'What, Roger Dart!' exclaimed the soldier, 'is this the way
you welcome a man home after a long absence?' The ploughman stared,
and said he did not know him. 'Do you know,' rejoined the corporal
with a trembling voice and anxious countenance--'do you know Lucy
Fennel?'

'Of course I do,' returned Roger; 'everybody knows her, and, if I may
make so bold, loves her too! Why, sure enough, there she is
sitting--don't you see?--there, sitting at Dame Damerel's door making
lace for the life of her.'

The stranger flew across the field, and the ploughman saw him bound
over the hedge, take Lucy into his arms, and drag her, bewildered and
enraptured, into the cottage. 'Why, dang me if it bean't Luke
Damerel!' exclaimed the rustic, slapping the thighs of his leather
breeches; 'how ma