"I crave your pardon, sir," said Sir Peter, in a tone of almost abject apology, as he took off his hat and made a ceremonious bow. "I shall never forgive myself for my stupid blunder; but the fact is I mistook your chaise for the one in which a niece of mine--confound her!--is at the present moment on her way to Gretna Green. We had tidings of her at the place where we last changed horses, and I made sure that the first chaise we should overtake must be the one of which we were in pursuit." "Sir, your apology makes ample amends," responded Mr. Darke in the most gracious of tones. "Your mistake was a most natural one. No doubt the flight of your niece has been a source of much annoyance to you." The scowl on Sir Peter's face was not pleasant to see. "If once I clap hands on her, she won't escape me again. Bolts and bars and bread-and-water--that's the only treatment for refractory wenches. But pardon me for not introducing myself. I am Sir Peter Warrendale, of Scrope Hall, near Whatton Regis." "And I, Colonel Delnay, of Scowthwaite, by Carlisle." At this point the two gentlemen bowed ceremoniously to each other. "I trust, Sir Peter, to have the pleasure of meeting you on some more auspicious occasion." "With all my heart, Colonel, I reciprocate the wish. But, ouns-an-codlins! I'm forgetting all about my runaway niece. May I ask whether anything has passed you on the road at all resembling a fly-by-night couple in a post-chaise?" "Nothing resembling what you speak of, Sir Peter, I give you my word. Most likely they have a post-boy with them who is acquainted with the short cut across the fells. It's a dangerous road for a chaise to traverse after dark, and the chances are that they will come to grief before they reach the end of it." "I'd give a hundred guineas, damme if I wouldn't, if one of their linch-pins was to drop out! But I may yet be in time to overtake 'em." And so, with a few more polite phrases on both sides, the two men parted. No sooner had the other chaise started on its way than Mr. Darke lay back in his seat and gave vent to a burst of hearty laughter. Then, in a full rich voice, he sang as under:-- You may ride through the night, nor draw rein all the day, Change horse as you list, and--tantivy! away! But from Humber to Ribble, 'twixt Derwent and Dee, You'll ne'er find a trace of sweet Ellen O'Lee! "Poor uncle! Poor Sir Peter!" he exclaimed. "His pretty niece will have been wed a couple of hours ere he crosses the Border. What a surly old curmudgeon he looks! No wonder his little bird was tired of its cage, and seized the first chance to flutter its wings and away."