Jerked out of her unprofitable meditations, Miss Wychwood opened her eyes. No sooner did they alight on the cause of Miss Farlow’s sudden exclamation that she tugged the check-string, and, as Twitcham pulled up his horses, said: “Oh, poor things! Of course we must stop, Maria, and try what we can do to rescue them from such a horrid plight!”

While her footman jumped down to open the carriage-door, and to let down the steps, she had time to assimilate the details of the mishap which had befallen two fellow-travellers. A gig, with one wheel missing, was lying at a drunken angle at the side of the road, and beside it were standing two people: a female, huddled in a cloak, and a fair young man, who was feeling the knees of the sturdy cob which he had drawn out from between the shafts of the gig, and who said, just as James, the footman, pulled open the door of Miss Wychwood’s carriage: “Well, thank God, at least this bonesetter is none the worse!”

His companion, whom Miss Wychwood perceived to be a very young, and a very pretty girl, replied, with some asperity: “I don’t see much to be thankful for in that!”

“I daresay you don’t!” retorted the young gentleman. “You won’t be called upon to pay for—” He broke off, as he became aware that the slap-up equipage which had just swept round a bend in the road had come to a halt, and that its occupant, a dazzlingly lovely lady, was preparing to descend from it. He gave a gasp, pulled off his modish beaver, and stammered: “Oh! I didn’t see—I mean, I didn’t think—that is to say—”

Miss Wychwood laughed, and relieved him from his embarrassment, saying, as she alighted from her carriage: “Did you suppose anyone could be so odiously selfish as not to stop? Not I, I promise you! The same thing happened to me once, and I know just how helpless it makes one feel when one loses a wheel! Now, what can I do to rescue you from this horrid predicament?”