I remained a week, and the hunting was
successful. On one occasion, Colonel Barwell
gave a proof of his astonishing skill with the
rifle. Jake had gone home, carrying the carcase
of a buck, and the colonel and I sauntered
through the woods. It was a heavy gun: not
the one he used for birds and squirrels: but
nothing escaped him. Squirrels, which I could
not see, came tumbling down from the trees;
partridges and quails dropped among the low
bushes; in every case the ball touched only
the head. "Do you never hit in the body?" I
asked. "Never, in this kind of game. If I
should kill a bird or squirrel with a ball in his
crop, I should leave it in the bushes." I mentally
determined not to become a target for Colonel
Barwell, as long as there was any other for him
to shoot at.

On the morning when I was to return home,
my host expressed the customary satisfaction at
the visit, in which I heartily joined; and he
assured me that he would remember me in any
legal business he might have.

Miss Celia (the preflx is universal in
Kentucky) came to the stile, and kindly bade me
good-by. I afterwards remembered that I saw
her slip something into Jake's hand.

I resumed my former mode of life. A fortnight
passed, when one evening, going to the
hotel for tea, I heard that Colonel Barwell's
daughter had eloped with young Manley—for
a Gretna-green marriage in Tennessee, it was
supposed—and that the father was in hot pursuit.
Then, I remembered the letter given to
Jake, and the significant glances between Miss
Celia and the unknown young man. The news
startled me. I saw once more, the spirited
girl, full of enthusiasm and romantic nonsense,
fancying herself a heroine. I saw the father,
too, with his pride, self-will, and energy, thundering
along in the track of the fugitives, I
hardly knew whether to wish for their escape
or no. I feared for the young man, howsoever
it fell out.

And who was Manley? I asked a number of
persons, each of whom answered after his own
way of thinking. No one man can give a correct
idea of another; by two or three observations,
as in trigonometry, you can obtain the data and
compute the elements.

Manley was the son of a waggon-maker in
Barrington, "poor but honest" (as the damaging
phrase is), who had brought up a numerous
family, feared God, and obeyed the laws. The
eldest son was of medium height, but looked
puny beside the tall men who are reared in
Kentucky. He was shapely and even graceful,
but slender in figure and retiring in manner.
While other young men hunted or revelled
he read and studied, until his
complexion became singularly delicate for that
scorching climate. When he was described to
me, I well remembered his large blue eyes,
full of intelligence and sensibility, and so shy
withal, that no one ever had more than a passing
glance from them. This was the man, albeit so
shriuking and feminine, who had fascinated the
stately and self-assured girl; this fellow, as
timid as a deer with his horns in the velvet, had
succeeded while a score of vigorous gallants
were waiting for an opportunity!

Next day, towards evening, young Manley,
with a companion named Cockburn, came back
to Barrington without the young lady. As the
town was full of a thousand flying stories about
the elopement, the disappointed hero was
overwhelmed with questions. This was the explanation:

Colonel Barwell had pushed on to the last
inn on the border of Tennessee, and had there
learned that the lovers had preceded him at
least an hour, and that they were by that time,
probably, man and wife. The innkeeper added,
that he expected them to return and pass the
night at his house. There was no alternative;
the baffled father sent his foaming horse to the
stable and waited for them.

Meanwhile, the fugitives found the magistrate
who generally tied the hurried knots for
couples from Kentucky; unfortunately, he had
no blank licenses required by the law, and to
serve the present purpose he took one which
had been used: erasing the old names and filling
in the new. The ceremony performed in
this irregular way, the young couple returned
in high spirits, and soon reached the inn. A
bountiful supper awaited them, and, when it was
finished, the bride was shown to her chamber,
Miss Celia was humming a song as she opened
the door, but the notes froze in her throat
when the light she carried, fell upon the stern
features of her father. He stood before her,
just within the room; a thousand rebukes in
his silent face.

"Father!" It was all she could say.

"Daughter!" And he stood with folded arms.
"So, you ran away," he went on at length;
"ran away, like one of the 'poor trash.' My
daughter, who can marry whom she likes! I
am not angry, but I am ashamed of you."

She did not speak. Proud and resolute as
she was, she knew her master.

"Are you married?"

She bowed silently.

"According to law? Oh, you don't know!
We'll see about that. Now, my daughter, you
haven't but one life to live, and we can't have it
wasted in experiments. When it is a proper
time for you to marry, I shall allow you a free
choice; but you are a foolish child now, and nothing
more. You thought it would be funny or
romantic to do this—as though it were something
that could be undone! I shall take you home
with me, and you can then reflect. I don't
believe you will disgrace yourself by choosing any
such low-flung people. But, first of all, whose
notion was it, this running away, yours or his?"

"Mine," she answered, tremblingly. Perhaps
not truly, for her father's eyes shone as he put
the last question, and, knowing the violence of
his wrath, she saw what a tempest was about to
break on the unlucky bridegroom.

"I shall see you again presently," said the
father. He walked to the door, and, taking the