nd though he did not lose
consciousness, his senses were dazed. He felt his legs and arms being
deftly tied, and yards of some soft stuff enveloping his head. He ceased
to struggle as soon as he felt the odds against him, and waited on
fortune. Voices came to his ears, and it seemed that one of them was a
woman's.

The crack on the causeway must have been harder than it appeared,
for Mr. Lovel fell into a doze. When he woke he had some trouble in
collecting his wits. He felt no bodily discomfort except a little
soreness at the back of his scalp. His captors had trussed him tenderly,
for his bonds did not hurt, though a few experiments convinced him
that they were sufficiently secure. His chief grievance was a sharp
recollection that he had not supped; but, being a philosopher, he
reflected that, though hungry, he was warm. He was in a glass coach
driven rapidly on a rough road, and outside the weather seemed to be
wild, for the snow was crusted on the window. There were riders in
attendance; he could hear the click-clack of ridden horses. Sometimes a
lantern flashed on the pane, and a face peered dimly through the frost.
It seemed a face that he had seen before.

Presently Mr. Lovel began to consider his position. Clearly he had been
kidnapped, but by whom and to what intent? He reflected with pain that
it might be his son's doing, for that gentleman had long been forbidden
his door. A rakehell of the Temple and married to a cast-off mistress
of Goring's, his son was certainly capable of any evil, but he reminded
himself that Jasper was not a fool and would scarcely see his profit in
such an escapade. Besides, he had not the funds to compass an enterprise
which must have cost money. He thought of the King's party, and
dismissed the thought. His opponents had a certain regard for him, and
he had the name of moderate. No, if politics touched the business, it
was Ireton's doing. Ireton feared his influence with Cromwell. But that
sober man of God was no bravo. He confessed himself at a loss.

Mr. Lovel had reached this point in his meditations when the coach
suddenly stopped. The door opened, and as he peered into the semicircle
of wavering lamp light he observed a tall young lady in a riding coat
white with snowflakes. She had dismounted from her horse, and the
beast's smoking nostrils were thawing the ice on her sleeve. She wore a
mask, but she did not deceive her father.

"Cecily," he cried, astounded out of his cal