Hope, probably as miserable as any of them in parting with his friend
and hero, was only standing like a stake, and an embarrassed stake (if
that be possible), and Lord Nithsdale, though anxious for him, heartily
pitying all, was nevertheless haunted by a queer recollection of Lance
and his dog, and thinking that French dogs were not devoid of sympathy,
and that the part of Crab was left for Arthur.

However, the last embrace was given, and the ladies were all packed in,
while the Abbe with his breast heaving with sobs, his big hat in one
hand, and a huge silk pocket-handkerchief in the other, did not forget
his manners, but waved to Arthur to ascend the steps first.
'Secretary, not guest. You must remember that another time,' said Lord
Nithsdale. 'God bless you, my dear lad, and bring you safe back to
bonny Scotland, a true and leal heart.'

Arthur wrung his friend's hand once more, and disappeared into the
vehicle; Nurse Honor made one more rush, and uttered another 'Ohone'
over Abbe Phelim, who followed into the carriage; the door was shut;
there was a last wail over 'Lanty, the sunbeam of me heart,' as he
climbed to the box seat; the harness jingled; coachman and postilions
cracked their whips, the impatient horses dashed out at the porte
cochere; and Arthur, after endeavouring to dispose of his legs, looked
about him, and saw, opposite to him, Madame de Bourke lying back in the
corner in a transport of grief, one arm round her daughter, and her
little son lying across her lap, both sobbing and crying; and on one
side of him the Abbe, sunk in his corner, his yellow silk handkerchief
over his face; on the other, Mademoiselle Julienne, who was crying too,
but with more moderation, perhaps more out of propriety or from
infection than from actual grief: at any rate she had more of her
senses about her than any one else, and managed to dispose of the