"Harry," said the panting Lucy. "Somewhere in—France, I think—'tis a—queer name."
"In France, Sir, at Malplaquet," said Harry, who now rode up quickly, having good-naturedly allowed his little sister the pleasure of winning the race; "a great victory under the Duke of Marlborough." And he handed the Gazette to his father.
"That is glorious!" said the Squire. "I will go in and tell Mother."
Not that Mother—that is, Madam Passmore—cared anything about victories, but she liked to see her husband pleased, and would have welcomed equally a victory or a defeat which had wrought that desirable end. Harry walked into the house with his father, and Lucy, having regained her breath, followed them.
"Why, Charley, where have you been?" asked the Squire, as that young gentleman made his appearance. "Here is a splendid victory over the French, and you are not here to cheer!"
"Where have I been?" repeated Charley, in a very glum tone. "Well, I like that! I have been at home, Sir, kicking my heels together for want of anything else to do: your party and Harry had taken all the horses."
"I did not know you wanted Fairy, Charley," said Harry, kindly. "I am sorry I took her."
"Come, my lad, no use in crying over spilt milk," said the Squire. "It is Saturday night, Charley, and people ought to be at peace on Saturday night."
"I hate Saturday nights, and Sundays too, and I don't want to be at peace!" said Charley, walking off.
On that afternoon, while Harry was riding home with the news of the victory of Malplaquet, an event was taking place in London Which the family at Ashcliffe little imagined, yet which very nearly concerned one of them.