But now my blood froze within my veins.  I would never have believed that a man in a high hat and livery a size too small for him could run, but Snortfrizzle’s man did, and at a pace which ought to have been prohibited by law.  I saw him coming from an unsuspected quarter, and swoop around that clump of flowers and foliage.  Regardless of consequences I approached nearer.  There was loud voices; there was exclamations; there was a rattling of wheels; there was the sundering of tender ties!

In a moment Pomeroy, who had backed off but a little way, began to speak, but his voice was drowned in the thunder of Snortfrizzle’s denunciations.  Angelica wept, and her head fell upon her lovely bosom, and I am sure I heard her implore her man to remove her from the scene.  Pomeroy remained, his face firm, his eyes undaunted, but Snortfrizzle shook his fist in unison with his nose, and, hurling an anathema at him, followed his daughter, probably to incarcerate her in her apartments.

All was over, and I returned to Jone with a heavy heart and faltering step.  I could not but feel that I had brought about the sad end of this tender chapter in the lives of Pomeroy and Angelica.  If I had let them alone they would not have met and they would not have been discovered together.  I didn’t tell Jone what had happened, because he does not always sympathize with me in my interest in others, and for hours my heart was heavy.

It was about a half an hour before dinner that day when I thought that a little walk might raise my spirits, and I wandered into the gardens, for which we each have a weekly ticket, and there, to my amazement, not far from the gate I saw Angelica in tears and her bath-chair.  Her man was not with her, and she was alone.  When she saw me she looked at me for a minute, and then she beckoned to me to come to her.  I flew.  There were but few people in the gardens, and we was alone.

“Madam,” said she, “I think you must be very kind.  I believe you knew that gentleman was not my brother.  He is not.”

“My dear miss,” said I—­I was almost on the point of calling her Angelica—­“I knew that.  I know that he is something nearer and dearer than even a brother.”

She blushed.  “Yes,” said she, “you are right, and we are in great trouble.”

“Oh, what is it?  Tell me quick.  What can I do to help you?”

“My father is very angry,” said she, “and has forbidden me ever to see him again, and he is going to take me home to-morrow.  But we have agreed to fly together to-day.  It is our only chance, but he is not here.  Oh, dear!  I do not know what I shall do.”

“Where are you going to fly to?” said I.

“We want to take the Edinburgh train this evening if there is one,” she said, “and we get off at Carlisle, and from there it is only a little way to Gretna Green.”

“Gretna Green!” I cried.  “Oh, I will help you!  I will help you!  Why isn’t the gentleman here, and where has he gone?”