Lucia had never been so happy, so content. You will go out at once, if you please. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. Henry Clay, thirteen cents in Hong-Kong and two-bits in that dear old New York. But threats and entreaties—even promises were ineffectual; and the unlucky captive, after exhausting his powers of persuasion, was compelled to give up the point. Besides these there was a warm gooseberry-tart, and a cold pigeon pie—the latter capacious enough, even allowing for its due complement of steak, to contain the whole produce of a dovecot; a couple of lobsters and the best part of a salmon swimming in a sea of vinegar, and shaded by a forest of fennel.
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