"Humph!" says I, "a nice energetic old gentleman to have for a father-in-law, to be sure. And that smooth villain Waring too. Did you not catch his voice also?" "Yes," says Cynthia, flaming, "the wicked, wretched, contriving villain. What can he hope to get by it all?" "A wife," says I. "He's like to go empty-handed there at least," says Cynthia. "What a mercy it was we were married this morning!" "I doubt whether we were," says I. "I do not know that the ceremony will hold in the sight of the law." "Then," says Cynthia, "we will be married over again in our real names and with a proper licence at the first church we can." "Nor will that avail you," says I, "when he hath got me hanged." Mrs. Cynthia grew thoughtful, but says she after a moment's reflection: "When he does that I will put an ounce of lead into his heart, then I can be hanged beside you." At this perforce I had to capitulate before her ingenuity. We resumed our way somewhat chastened in spirit. We looked keenly ahead of us along the road as we went, for any sign of the vehicle that had lately overtaken us. Any inn or alehouse that happened to lie at the roadside we passed with particular caution, lest our papa and his companion should have broken their journey there. As time went by, and we had begun to forget the excellent repast of boiled mutton and potherbs with which we had been regaled by parson Scriven, we cast our eyes on these wayside places of entertainment with another end in view. We were growing honestly tired and hungry. Coming to one that wore an air of unobtrusive respectability and general cleanliness, we determined to part with half of our fortune in exchange for some bread and cheese and ale.