ions taken, he ascended to his room and packed his
traveling-bag. "Necessaries for my use in prison," he remarked. "The
bloodhounds of Government are after me." "Are they after Percy, too?"
his wife ventured to ask. Mr. Bowmore looked up impatiently, and
cried "Pooh!"--as if Percy was of no consequence. Mrs. Bowmore thought
otherwise: the good woman privately packed a bag for Percy, in the
sanctuary of her own room.

For an hour, and more than an hour, no event of any sort occurred.

Mr. Bowmore stalked up and down the parlor, meditating. At intervals,
ideas of flight presented themselves attractively to his mind. At
intervals, ideas of the speech that he had prepared for the public
meeting on the next day took their place. "If I fly to-night," he wisely
observed, "what will become of my speech? I will _not_ fly to-night! The
people shall hear me."

He sat down and crossed his arms fiercely. As he looked at his wife
to see what effect he had produced on her, the sound of heavy
carriage-wheels and the trampling of horses penetrated to the parlor
from the garden-gate.

Mr. Bowmore started to his feet, with every appearance of having
suddenly altered his mind on the question of flight. Just as he reached
the hall, Percy's voice was heard at the front door. "Let me in.
Instantly! Instantly!"

Mrs. Bowmore drew back the bolts before the servants could help her.
"Where is Charlotte?" she cried; seeing Percy alone on the doorstep.

"Gone!" Percy answered furiously. "Eloped to Paris with Captain Bervie!
Read her own confession. They were just sending the messenger with it,
when I reached the house."

He handed a note to Mrs. Bowmore, and turned aside to speak to her
husband while she read it. Charlotte wrote to her mother very briefly;
promising to explain everything on her return. In the meantime, she had
left home under careful protection--she had a lady for her companion
on the journey--and she would write again from Paris. So the letter,
evidently written in great haste, began and ended.

Percy took Mr. Bowmore to the window, and pointed to a carriage and four
horses waiting at the garden-gate.

"Do you come with me, and back me with your authority as her father?" he
asked, sternly. "Or do you leave me to go alone?"

Mr. Bowmore was famous among his admirers for his "happy replies." He
made one now.

"I am not Brutus," he said. "I am only Bowmore. My daughter before
everything. Fetch my traveling-bag."

Whil