to
say that Bartolo Johnson had come to his house a short time before,
knocked him up, and told him that the northern gentleman and Garda were
ten miles out on the barren, and that he had been sent in to bring out a
carriage for them. He confessed--Bartolo--that he ought to have been
there _hours_ before, as the gentleman had sent him in on his own horse
not much past eight in the evening. But, on the way, he had to pass the
cabin of one of his _friends_, he said--a nice friend, that wild,
drinking Joe Tasteen!--and Joe stopped him, and he intended to stay only
a moment, of course, which soon became many minutes as the foolish boy
lay on the floor in a drunken sleep, while two of Joe's hangers-on,
though not actually Joe himself, I believe, made off with the horse. Of
course it was a regular plot, and I'm afraid Mr. Winthrop will never
see _that_ horse again! When Bartolo _did_ at last wake up, he came in
to Gracias as fast as he could scamper, and went straight to Marcos's
place and told all about it--the only redeeming feature in _his_ part of
the affair--and Marcos got out his carriage, and sent one of his best
men as driver, with Bartolo as guide, and then he went over to your
house to tell the Doctor, and not finding him, came on to the rectory,
and Mr. Moore told him that he did wrong not to come to him _before_
sending the carriage (but Marcos said Bartolo wouldn't wait), because he
himself would have gone out in it after Garda, of course. This was the
first _we_ knew, in Gracias, of Mr. Winthrop's being with the dear
child, and it _did_ seem so fortunate that if they were to be lost at
all, they should happen to be lost _together_. Mr. Moore thought, and so
did Marcos Finish, that they would drive directly here, without stopping
in Gracias, and so he rode down at once; and I was coming down myself,
later, only they did that _sweet_ thing, they stopped after all, and
came to _me_. There they were in the drawing-room when I hurried down,
Garda laughing, oh, _so_ pretty, the dear! As soon as I knew, I took her
in my arms and gave her a true _mother's_ blessing. Oh, Mistress Kirby,
how such days as this take us back to our _own_ spring-time, to the
first buddings and blossomings of our _own_ dear days of love! I am
sure--I am sure," continued Betty, overcome again, and lifting the
handkerchief, "that we _cannot_ but remember!"

Mrs. Kirby remembered; but not with her lachrymal glands; it was not
everybody who was en