would bleed her, and his French--la, my cat can meow better French. Ah,
I have it. I will fetch Chovet. We have not spoken for a month,
because--but no matter, he will come."

There was nothing to do but to thank this resolute lady. "I will send
for him at once, Aunt Gainor," said Mrs. Swanwick.

To De Courval's surprise, it was Margaret who answered. "He will come
the quicker for Aunt Gainor, mother. Every one does as she wants." This
was to De Courval.

"Except you, you demure little Quaker kitten. I must go," and the
masterful woman in question was out of the house in a moment, followed
by Schmidt and De Courval.

"A chair. I can't mount as I used to." Her black groom brought out a
chair. In a moment she was on the back of the powerfully built stallion
and clattering up Front Street with perilous indifference to an
ill-paved road and any unwatchful foot-passenger. She struck up Spruce
Street and the unpaved road then called Delaware Fifth Street and so
down Arch. It was mid-morning, and the street full of vehicles and
people a-foot. Suddenly, when near her own house, she checked her horse
as she saw approaching a chaise with leather springs, the top thrown
back, and in front a sorry-looking white horse. Within sat a man who
would have served for the English stage presentation of a Frenchman--a
spare figure, little, with very red cheeks under a powdered wig; he was
dressed in the height of the most extravagant fashion of a day fond of
color. The conventional gold-headed cane of the physician lay between
his legs. At sight of Mistress Wynne he applied the whip and called out
to his horse in a shrill voice, "_Allez_. Get on, Ca Ira!"

The spinster cried to him as they came near: "Stop, stop, Doctor! I want
you. Stop--do you hear me?"

He had not forgotten a recent and somewhat fierce political passage of
arms, and turned to go by her. With a quick movement she threw the big
stallion in front of Ca Ira, who reared, stopped short, and cast the
doctor sprawling over the dash-board. He sat up in wrath. "_Sacre
bleu!_" he cried, "I might have been killed. _Quelle femme!_ What a
woman! And my wig--" It was in the street dust.

"Why did you not stop? Get the man's wig, Tom." The groom, grinning,
dismounted and stood still, awaiting her orders, the dusty wig in his
hand.

[Illustration: "With a quick movement she threw the big stallion in
front of Ca Ira"]

"My wig--give it to me."

"No, don't give it to him." The