"Let's go now!" he cried, nearly upsetting the boat in his eagerness.
"Oh! Oh, Dick!" cried Lisbeth at this moment, "Dick--there's aunt!"
"Aunt?" I repeated.
"Aunt Agatha, and she sees us; look!"
Turning my head, I beheld a most unexpected sight. Advancing directly upon us was the old boat, that identical, weather-beaten tub of a boat in which Lisbeth and I had come so near ending our lives together, the which has already been told in these Chronicles. On the rowing-thwart sat Peter, the coachman, and in the stern-sheets, very grim and stiff in the back, her lorgnette to her eyes, was Lady Warburton.
Escape was quite out of the question, and in half a dozen strokes of the oar we were alongside and close under the battery of the lorgnette.
"Elizabeth," she began, in her most ponderous manner, ignoring my presence altogether, "Elizabeth, child, I blush for you."
"Then, aunt, please don't," cried Lisbeth; "I can do quite enough of that for myself. I'm always blushing lately," and as if to prove her words she immediately proceeded to do so.
"Elizabeth," proceeded Lady Warburton, making great play with her lorgnette, "your very shameless, ungrateful letter I received last night. This morning I arose at an objectionably early hour, travelled down in a draughty train, and here I am out on a damp and nasty river in a leaky boat, with my feet horribly wet, but determined to save you from an act which you may repent all your days."
"Excuse me," I said, bowing deeply, "but such heroic devotion cannot be sufficiently appreciated and admired. In Lisbeth's name I beg to thank you; nevertheless----"