“But he isn’t likely to,” said Miss Sally.
“Oh, what shall I do?” wailed the niece.
“Elizabeth, I’ll wager you’re still in love with him!”
“I’m not! I hate him!—Well, what if I am? He loved me, I’m sure, the last time he said it. But, good heavens, he’s going farther away every instant!”
She clasped her hands, and, for once, looked at her aunt for help, like a distressed child on the verge of weeping.
“Why don’t you call him back?” said Miss Sally.
“I? Not if I die for want of seeing him!—I know! I will send the servants after him.” And she started for the door, but stopped at her aunt’s comment:
“But that will be as bad as calling him yourself.”
“Not at all, you empty pate!” cried Elizabeth, who had become, in a moment, all action. “While he’s going around by the road, Williams and Sam shall cut across the garden, lie in wait, and take him by surprise. He has no weapon but a broken sword, and they can make him prisoner. They shall bring him back here bound, and he’ll think he’s to be turned over to the British after all!”