n, who was,
no doubt, her sweetheart, which accounted for his very convenient
presence on the doorstep.

"I arrest you in the King's name!" declared that officer, when the
clothes line was sufficiently knotted, and Montague had ceased
struggling. "You will be brought up on trial before the court, and
charged with house-breaking and resisting the police."

It was only then that the wretched man began to protest his innocence,
and that Dorothea, falling on her knees, explained his name, errand, and
intentions, and entreated her aunt to overlook the matter.

Miss Morton wavered visibly. It was evident that her natural kindness of
heart gave her a bias towards the lovers--she had, perhaps, been through
an affair of the same sort herself in her youth--yet on the other hand
her duty to her sister urged her to take stern measures. She drew the
letter from her pocket with the seeming intention of strengthening her
resolution against the hopes of Montague, and was shaking her head
sadly over it, when the obstreperous servant, who had rushed for no
apparent reason, except habit, to the door, bounded back, waving a
yellow envelope. A well-trained maid usually presents a telegram upon a
tray, but Miss Morton must have been accustomed to Jemima's rough ways,
or was too agitated to rebuke her; she tore open the missive, glanced at
its contents, and with a scream of joy sank fainting into her domestic's
faithful arms.

Of course, somebody had to read the telegram aloud. The policeman seemed
to think it was his business. He picked it up, and proclaimed it in the
manner of a town crier. It was short, but much to the point.

"Please encourage Montague Ponsonby. Uncle has died and
left him vast fortune.
"ELIZABETH."

Everybody recovered at the good news. Miss Morton rose from the arms of
Jemima, apologized to Mr. Ponsonby for having mistaken him for a
burglar, and invited him to stay to lunch. He begged her not to mention
the matter, and as soon as his wrists had been released by the
policeman, he shook hands cordially with his prospective aunt, and made
a pretty speech expressing his desire to become a member of the family.

This was undoubtedly the moment for the curtain to descend, but as that
most useful of stage adjuncts was conspicuous by its absence, the actors
lined up instead, and made their parting bows with much eclat, Dorothea
leaning elegantly upon her lover's shoulder, Aunt Monica holding aloft
the