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Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed, after the sudden
exit of Fred Heneage from the window of the Elms,
before he rushed up the steps of the Shooting Box,
although they were nearly two miles apart, and entered
the library, wherein Harry and Frank Forester were
sitting, engaged in a game of chess, with a bottle of
claret and a pair of half pint goblets at their elbow.

He was as pale as death, brow, cheek and lip; but
on his forehead the big sweat drops stood `like bubbles
on a late perturbed stream,' and his whole frame
shook violently with the effects of the great anger he
had so manfully controlled.

“Great God! Fred!”—exclaimed Archer—“It is
as I expected. Theodore D'Arcey has returned!”

“He has!” replied Heneage, throwing himself into
a chair, and covering his face with his hands.

Archer rose from his seat, and walked up and down
the room hastily for several minutes, before he spoke a
word; then stopping short, he poured out a full glass
of claret, swallowed it at a mouthful, and, resuming his
seat, said in a quiet though anxious voice,

“Tell us all, Fred, that we may know what to
advise.”

“I never thought to bear as much from any living
man, as I have borne this night,” said Heneage
gloomily, “I hardly know if, in honor, I can bear it.”

“Did he strike you?”

“Strike me! what do you think of me, Archer?
Strike me! no man strikes me, and lives one hour to

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tell of it! no, God be praised! he did not strike me—
but that is all that he did not.”

“Well, tell us, Fred. Do not be excited, but tell
us all. We will have you righted, be things as they
may.”

Quietly and deliberately he now related every thing
that had passed, omitting not one word, extenuating
nought, nor setting down anything in malice, while,
breathless in surprise and anxious interest, Harry and
Forester sat listening.

When he had finished his narration, he raised his
eye to Archer's face, and asked quietly, “Have I done
well? Is all lost?”

“Impossible to have done better. I only wonder
how you could have borne it. I only wish that I could
be sure of acting as you have acted, in the like emergency.
Lost! no, by George! all is won, if you will
but do as I would have you!”

“How would you have me do?”

“Run away with her. There is nothing else for it.”

“I do not think she will consent to it.”

“Yes! she will, with her mother's consent—I can
get that. In the first place, it is the only way to escape
a scandal, and a fracas. In the second, he may, I fancy,
give you some trouble legally, for she is not of age;
and he is, I believe, a trustee or guardian, or some
such thing, of some property that will be hers.”

“Damn the property!”

“Yes! damn the property as much as you please,
but do not damn your chance of getting Maria!” replied
Archer, coolly. “In the third place, it is his
game to force you into a personal row, perhaps into a
duel, which would destroy your chance for ever.”

“What is your plan, then?”

“I foresaw all this. That is the reason of my buying
those new horses. Now we will send Timothy
down the road with the new team to young Tom's, in

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the valley of the Ramapo, over the mountain, and I
will make old Tom Draw drive my old team down to
Hackensack, and leave me his big roan and the gray
colt. These, with a pair of leaders which I will get of
Bill Welling, the stage-driver, will carry us over the
Long Pond mountain to our first change, as well as the
lighter and faster horses; and if we can get so far unpursued,
we can reach New York easily enough, and
get the business done in ten minutes.”

“But if we should be pursued!”

“If we should, we cannot at least be overtaken
before we have got our first relay in the traces—for I
would not allow him to stop me in the road; and even
if he should come up with us at Tom's, why I will stop
him there, if I have to thrash him to his heart's content.
But he cannot overtake us, if we manage matters
well, until we reach Hackensack—and I think he eannot
even then.”

“But if he should?”

“If he should?—Why then we shall have old Tom
there!”

“Old Tom! and what in heaven's name, has old
Tom got to do with it?”

“Tom is very fond of Theodore!” answered Harry.

“Yes!” interposed Frank Forester, “Tom does set
great store by him. Tom's your man in that matter.”

“How so?”

“A little ruse, Fred! nothing more, upon my honor!
It has just come into my mind, and must succeed.
But it will be the better way, that you should know
nothing about it.”

“I do not see! no, no. It will never do. I will
stay here. I will go to his house to-morrow, and claim
her openly, and bring her away, in spite of him.”

“And then he will strike you, or spit upon you,”
replied Archer, “in fact, force you to fight him, and
you will—”

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“Shoot him, as I would a mad dog!”

“It would serve him very rightly, I confess. But,
except in Ireland, shooting her brother is not exactly
the way to woo a sister. Here it would, of course, lose
her to you, for ever. No, no. Be calm; listen to me.
I will pledge my existence, if you will be quiet, that
all shall go rightly.”

“Yes! yes! old fellow!” said Forester; “leave it
to us. Harry shall have a quiet palaver with the old
lady to-morrow; and she will settle every thing. Old
Tom shall be down at Hackensack, with a trap for the
lawyer ready set. I partly guess what Harry would be
at. We will have such a glorious gallop through the old
woods, as never was recorded yet in the Spirit; Dick
shall precede us on bay Trojan, to have the relays
ready; and I will ride behind you upon Selim, with
the marking irons; and egad! if there's any shooting
to be done, I'll have a crack at the son of a gun myself.
I owe him two or three.”

“Yes, do, Fred Heneage, do be ruled,” said Archer,
“only put yourself entirely under my guidance, avoid
that scamp, and stay quietly at home for two days, and I
will pledge you my honor, she shall be your wife before
the third evening. Did I ever deceive you, Fred?”

“Never, old fellow. I will do it! Upon my word
I will. I put myself into your charge solely.”

“Run out, Frank, run quickly. Have Lucifer put
to the light wagon, and fetch Tom hither instantly;
take no excuse, but bring him!”

“Consider him brought!” said Frank, leaving the
room without a moment's hesitation.

“Ring the bell, Fred. Hand me that note paper,
and the pen and ink. Aye! that is it?”

By the time he had got the writing materials, Tim
Matlock made his appearance.

“Is black Joe about Tim?” asked his master.

“Ay, reckon he's i' t' hayloft, Measter Archer. He

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was in here a piece sin, for a drink o' t' whiskey, and
then he said 'at he was varry sleepy, and he's been gane
an hour or better.”

“Can you find him?”

“Ay'se oophaud it.”

“Away with you, then. Stay, Mr. Draw is coming
to supper; order a broiled bone and some fried oysters
instantly.”

“Aye, aye, sur.”

The note completed, which Harry would not suffer
Fred so much as to see, the black genius, whom Archer
had described as never sleeping in a bed, or pulling off
his clothes, from one year's end to the other, made his
appearance, grinning from ear to ear, and pulling his
woolly forelock with a hand as big as Goliah's.

“The whiskey, Timothy.”

The flask was at his hand in a moment.

“Now, look here, Joe, if you answer me five questions
straight, without boggling or dodging, a tumbler
full of this. And if you do what I tell you cleanly, and
without a blunder, five dollars!—Will you do it?”

“Try to, Masser Harry?”

“Who are you sparking now, Joe?”

“Golly, Mass—” the negro burst out with a
horse laugh, but mindful of the whiskey, checked himself
instantly, and after a strange convulsive explosion,
in which he stifled his risibility, he replied,

“Missie D'Arcey' Phillis, now, Masser Harry.”

“I thought so,” replied Harry, with a nod of self-approbation;
“and when can you see Phillis, Joe?”

“Mose any time, Masser Harry.”

“To-night?”

“I guess so, Masser Harry.”

“Does Phillis like young Mr. D'Arcey.”

“She hate him wuss nor pison. Why Gor-a-massy,
all e niggar hate him, 'cause he never 'spectful nohow!”

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“Exactly. Then, go and find her, and if you let
any one see or hear you, 'specially Mr. D'Arcey, do
you understand me?—I'll be the death of you.”

“Understand berry well, Masser Harry.”

“Give her this letter, and tell her if she will give it
to Mrs. D'Arcey to-night, without letting any soul find
it out, I will send a new yaller calicker, and a five dollar
bill.”

“I'll do't, Masser Harry.”

“How can you at this time of night?” asked Heneage,
doubtfully.

“Nigga whistle, Masser Heneage, Phillis come
amose any time.”

“That's it,” said Harry, “bolt your whiskey—cut
your stick. Here comes fat Tom.”

And with the word, in came fat Tom, amazed at the
tale which Forester had partially revealed, but full of
glee and promise.”

“Well done, boy!” he exclaimed, “she's the allfired
prettiest gal in old Orange, and the finest any
how. I'll fix that, Harry. Jest as you reckoned—I'll
fix that down to Hackensack. He didn't say I parjured
myself in court at Goshen, for nauthen. I'll fix him,
or my name arn't Tom Draw. You shall have her,
Fred. You shall have her, boy. But I'm as hungry
as h—now. Where's supper, Timothy?” And with
those words, the council ended.