Mrs. Nichols made no reply, but when she thought she was not observed, she arose, and slyly taking down the satchel, placed it under her.  Then seating herself upon it, she gave a sigh of relief as she thought, “they’d have to work hard to get it now, without her knowing it!” Dear old soul, when arrived at her journey’s end, how much comfort she took in recounting over and over again the incidents of the robbery, wondering if it was, as John said, the very man who had so kindly cautioned her to beware of pickpockets, and who thus ascertained where she kept her purse.  Nancy Scovandyke, too, was duly informed of her loss, and charged when she came to Kentucky, “to look out on the ferry-boat for a youngish, good-looking man, with brown frock coat, blue cravat, and mouth full of white teeth.”

At Buffalo Mr. Livingstone had hard work to coax his mother on board the steamboat, but he finally succeeded, and as the weather chanced to be fine, she declared that ride on the lake to be the pleasantest part of her journey.  At Cleveland they took the cars for Cincinnati, going thence to Lexington by stage.  On ordinary occasions Mr. Livingstone would have preferred the river, but knowing that in all probability he should meet with some of his friends upon the boat, he chose the route via Lexington, where he stopped at the Phoenix, as was his usual custom.

After seeing his mother and niece into the public parlor he left them for a time, saying he had some business to transact in the city.  Scarcely was he gone when the sound of shuffling footsteps in the hall announced an arrival, and a moment after, a boy, apparently fifteen years of age, appeared in the door.  He was richly though carelessly dressed, and notwithstanding the good-humored expression of his rather handsome face, there was in his whole appearance an indescribable something which at once pronounced him to be a “fast” boy.  A rowdy hat was set on one side of his head, after the most approved fashion, while in his hand he held a lighted cigar, which he applied to his mouth when he saw the parlor was unoccupied, save by an “old woman” and a “little girl.”

Instinctively ’Lena shrank from him, and withdrawing herself as far as possible within the recess of the window, pretended to be busily watching the passers-by.  But she did not escape his notice, and after coolly surveying her for a moment, he walked up to her, saying, “How d’ye, polywog?  I’ll be hanged if I know to what gender you belong—­woman or gal—­which is it, hey?”

“None of your business,” was ’Lena’s ready answer.

“Spunky, ain’t you,” said he, unceremoniously pulling one of the brown curls which Durward had so longed to touch.  “Seems to me your hair don’t match the rest of you; wonder if ’tisn’t somebody else’s head set on your shoulders.”

“No, it ain’t.  It’s my own head, and you just let it alone,” returned ’Lena, growing more and more indignant, and wondering if this were a specimen of Kentucky boys.