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“When the lads of the village so merrily, ah!
Sound their tabours, I’ll hand thee along.”

“Fool! Dolt! Idiot!” cried his Araminta, rising furious–“out of my sight!” Then, sinking down upon the chair, she burst into tears, and threw herself into the arms of her pale, astonished Angelina. “Oh, my Angelina!” she exclaimed, “I am the most ill-matched! most unfortunate! most wretched of women!”

“Don’t be frighted, miss,” said Nat; “she’ll come to again presently–’tis only her way.” As he spoke, he poured out a bumper of brandy, and kneeling, presented it to his mistress. “‘Tis the only thing in life does her good,” continued he, “in this sort of fits.”

“Heavens, what a scene!” said Miss Warwick to herself–“and the woman so heavy, I can scarce support her weight–and is this my unknown friend? “

How long Miss Hodges would willingly have continued to sob upon Miss Warwick’s shoulder, or how long that shoulder could possibly have sustained her weight, is a mixed problem in physics and metaphysics, which must for ever remain unsolved: but suddenly a loud scream was heard. Miss Hodges started up–the door was thrown open, and Betty Williams rushed in, crying loudly–“Oh, shave me! shave me! for the love of Cot, shave me, miss!” and, pushing by the swain, who held the unfinished glass of brandy in his hand, she threw herself on her knees at the feet of Angelina.

“Gracious me!” exclaimed Nat, “whatever you are, you need not push one so.”

“What now, Betty Williams? is the wench mad or drunk?” cried Miss Hodges.

“We are to have a mad scene next, I suppose,” said Miss Warwick, calmly–“I am prepared for every thing, after what I have seen.”

Betty Williams continued crying bitterly, and wringing her hands–“Oh, shave me this once, miss! ’tis the first thing of the kind I ever tid, inteet, inteet! Oh, shave me this once–I tid not know it was worth so much as a shilling, and that I could be hanged, inteet–and I–“

Here Betty was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Puffit, the milliner, the printer’s devil, and a stern-looking man, to whom Mrs. Puffit, as she came in, said, pointing to Betty Williams and Miss Warwick, “There they are–do your duty, Mr. Constable: I’ll swear to my lace.”

“And I’ll swear to my black thumbs,” said the printer’s devil.

“I saw the lace hanging out of her pocket, and there’s the marks of my fingers upon it, Mr. Constable.”

“Fellow!” cried Miss Hodges, taking the constable by the arm, “this is my apartment, into which no minion of the law has a right to enter; for, in England, every man’s house is his castle.”

“I know that as well as you do, madam! ” said the constable; “but I make it a principle to do nothing without a warrant: here’s my warrant.”

“Oh, shave me! the lace is hers inteet!” cried Betty Williams, pointing to Miss Warwick. “Oh, miss is my mistress inteet–“

“Come, mistress or miss, then, you’ll be pleased to come along with me,” said the constable, seizing hold of Angelina–“like mistress, like maid.”

“Villain! unfeeling villain! oh, unhand my Angelina, or I shall die! I shall die!” exclaimed Araminta, falling into the arms of Nat Gazabo, who immediately held the replenished glass of brandy to her lips–“Oh, my Angelina, my Angelina!”

Struck with horror at her situation, Miss Warwick shrunk from the grasp of the constable, and leaned motionless on the back of a chair.

“Come, my angel, as they call you, I think–the lady there has brandy enough, if you want spirits–all the fits and faintings in Christendom won’t serve you now. I’m used to the tricks o’ the trade.–The law must take its course; and if you can’t walk, I must carry you.”

“Touch me at your peril! I am innocent,” said Angelina.

“Innocent–innocence itself! pure, spotless, injured innocence!” cried Miss Hodges. “I shall die! I shall die! I shall die on the spot! barbarous, barbarous villain!”