Be here to take him to-morrow, if you please.

Good night!' And, after one or two strange plunges, quite of his own invention, the pony yielded to Mr Abel's mildness, and trotted gently off.
All this time Mr Chuckster had been standing at the door, and the small servant had been afraid to approach.

She had nothing for it now, therefore, but to run after the chaise, and to call to Mr Abel to stop.
Being out of breath when she came up with it, she was unable to make him hear.

The case was desperate; for the pony was quickening his pace.

The Marchioness hung on behind for a few moments, and, feeling that she could go no farther, and must soon yield, clambered by a vigorous effort into the hinder seat, and in so doing lost one of the shoes for ever.
Mr Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind, and having quite enough to do to keep the pony going, went jogging on without looking round: little dreaming of the strange figure that was close behind him, until the Marchioness, having in some degree recovered her breath, and the loss of her shoe, and the novelty of her position, uttered close into his ear, the words--'I say, Sir'-- He turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony, cried, with some trepidation, 'God bless me, what is this!' 'Don't be frightened, Sir,' replied the still panting messenger.