When Frederick Morley returned to the inn, after his meeting with Alrina, he found his friend, Lieut. Fowler, there in deep conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Brown.
"Hallo! old fellow," he exclaimed, as his friend entered; "a pretty fellow you are, to keep the squire's dinner waiting, and two pair of bright eyes languishing for something more sprightly than a poor lieutenant R.N. to rest their weary lids upon. Why, where the deuce have you been? You are not ill-wished, too, are you?"
"It seems very like it," replied Morley; "for I seem to bring trouble wherever I go. Only last night, when I simply wanted a note taken over to you, and my bag brought back, the boy was taken off by the pixies, and the landlord's mare caught St. Vitus's dance, or something worse,—so the sooner I return to the place from whence I came, the better."
"I don't know that," replied Fowler; "for you have work cut out for you here, it seems."
"What do you mean?" replied his friend, smiling. "The French haven't landed, have they? and you want me to take the command of the volunteers?"
"No, no," said Fowler; "but our friend, Mr. Brown, has been to the conjuror about his misfortunes; and what do you think he told him?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Morley; "some humbug, I suppose."
"Nothing of the kind, I assure you," replied Fowler. "He merely said that it would depend on the courage and skill of the person who was the innocent cause of the misfortunes, to extricate him out of them."
"If you mean me," replied Morley, "you know I don't want for pluck; as to the skill, that's another thing,—that will depend on what there is to do."