Suddenly the carriage stopped at the foot of a hill. She opened her
eyes, and there stood David Dodd at the carriage window.
Lucy put her head out. "Why, it is Mr. Dodd! Oh, Mr. Dodd, is there
anything the matter?"
"No."
"You look so pale."
"Do I?" and he flushed faintly.
"Which way are you going?"
"I am going home again now," said David, sorrowfully.
"You came all this way to bid me good-by," and she arched her eyebrows
and laughed--a little uneasily.
"It didn't seem a step. It will seem longer going back."
"No, no, you shall ride back. My pony is at the White Horse; will you
not ride my pony back for me? then I shall know he will be kindly
used; a stranger would whip him."
"I should think my arm would wither if I ill-used him."
"You are very good. I suppose it is because you are so brave."
"Me brave? I don't feel so. Am I to tell him to drive on?" and he
looked at her with haggard and imploring eyes.
Her eyes fell before his.
"Good-by, then," said she.
He cried with a choking voice to the postilion, "Go ahead."
The carriage went on and left him standing in the road, his head upon
his breast.
At the steepest part of the hill a trace broke, and the driver drew
the carriage across the hill and shouted to David. He came running up,
and put a large stone behind each wheel.
Lucy was alarmed. "Mr. Dodd! let me out."
He handed her out. The postboy was at a _nonplus;_ but David
whipped a piece of cord and a knife out of his pocket, and began, with
great rapidity and dexterity, to splice the trace.
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