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"His name ain't Hinter," said Billy. "It's Jacobs." "Set down there an' keep still as a mouse till I get back," he admonished. "I won't be long." She was twenty-three years of age, and it will be readily supposed had been sought in marriage by more than one ardent swain. But she had kept her heart whole: nothing in breeches and stockings and long cut-away coat and salutations adopted from the most approved Parisian styles had touched the passions of Lucy Acton. She was like Emma as painted by Miss Austen: she loved her home, she adored her father, she was perfectly well satisfied with her present state of being, she could not conceive anything in a man that was worth marrying for, and being well, she meant to leave well alone..
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She delivered the same wild, screaming laugh which had before filled the cabin with its insane music, and said, dropping her note into one of plaintiveness, whilst she extended her skirt with both hands as though she was about to make a step or two in a dance: "Think of poor Lucy Acton in rags! Think of the lady who was notable, before a liar and a rogue stole her from her father, for her fine dresses and modish hats and bonnets; oh, think of her"—she paused to sigh deeply—"in rags, a prisoner in a ship owned by her father, who would kill the wretch that tore her from his side!" "But where is Lucy?" cried Miss Acton. "Well, somebody has to think in a case o' that kind," admitted Billy, "an' think quick. It was up to me to save you, an' I did the only thing I could think of right then." He was suddenly hailed from the gate by a loud, hearty voice..
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