Lucy Harding

by Mary Jane Holmes

I did not know whether we were or not, but it was safe to answer in the affirmative and that he had been very kind to us all since we first met him.

“He is of a good family and ought to be something better than a hunter of criminals. People wonder he took it up. Would you marry him?” was her next question.

“Marry him! Marry a Russian! Never!” I exclaimed, so loud that she started in her chair. Her spectacles fell off and her needle came unthreaded again.

“They are not so bad if you get the right one,” she said, adjusting her glasses and making more jabs at the eye of her needle.

I threaded it for her, and as there was nothing to gain by stopping longer, I took my leave, after bidding her let me know at once if she had good news for me.

“To-morrow,” was her reply, and I left her patching the old coat which made me faint to look at, it spoke so plainly of poverty and the scenes it must have been in, for I believed it was the one Carl had worn when I met him, and that the rent which Ursula was mending was made by Chance’s big paws.

Quite a retinue of children attended us for a ways, and among them my old hat was conspicuous again, worn this time right side before, with a piece of an old blue veil twisted round it and round the girl’s face. That night seemed interminable as I waited for the to-morrow and what it might bring from Ursula. It brought a note addressed in a fair hand, and containing only the words: “Come this afternoon at two o’clock, and alone.”

I did not quite like the word alone, but did not hesitate a moment. But how should I manage it? What excuse should I make to my friends who were already looking upon me as something of a crank? At last I decided to make no excuse except that I was going out on business and alone, with the exception of Chance, who was already waiting outside the hotel, as he had waited every morning since my adventure with Carl. Mary suspected where I was going, but said nothing, and at a little before two I was driving along the Nevsky till I reached a point where I alighted, telling the driver I would walk the rest of the way. Chance was in high spirits, sometimes running far ahead of me and then bounding back to my side. The moment I turned into the street, or square, where Ursula lived his whole attitude changed. His fur seemed rough and his head was lowered to the ground as he started on a racing gallop as if in pursuit of something. He was usually obedient to my call, and I succeeded in getting him back and kept my hand upon his neck until I reached Ursula’s house. There were not as many children in sight as usual. They had gone on a picnic and the street was very quiet. Ursula was watching for me, but her countenance fell when she saw Chance pulling to get free.

“I thought you would come alone,” she said. “I am afraid of that dog.”

“He is harmless if there is nothing to be harmed,” I replied, taking the chair she offered me and still holding Chance, who tugged to get away from me, and finally did so, beginning to run in circles around the room and to scratch at a door which, I think, opened into a bedchamber and in which I heard a rustling sound as of some one moving. “Carl is in there,” I said to Ursula, who replied, after listening a moment, while Chance continued banging at the door with his huge paws: “He was there. He is not now, thank God! He has a way of leaving the place unknown to anyone but ourselves. And he has taken it. He saw the dog coming with you and was afraid like myself. I sent for him last night and told him what you wanted. He had the watch and promised to bring it this afternoon and give it to you himself. He wanted to thank you personally for letting him go that day and to tell you he was not all bad and was going to do better. He brought the watch, but dare not face the dog.”