That night came Aunt Ellen， gentle， sentimental， wrinkled，sighing， oppressed by wealth， in to Brother Anthony athis evening paper， and began discourse on the subject oflovers’ woes.
“He told me all about it，” said brother Anthony， yawning.
“I told him my bank account was at his service. And thenhe began to knock money. Said money couldn’t help. Saidthe rules of society couldn’t be bucked for a yard by a teamof ten-millionaires.”
“Oh， Anthony，” sighed Aunt Ellen， “I wish you would notthink so much of money. Wealth is nothing where a trueaffection is concerned. Love is all-powerful. If he only hadspoken earlier！ She could not have refused our Richard.
But now I fear it is too late. He will have no opportunityto address her. All your gold cannot bring happiness toyour son.”
At eight o’clock the next evening Aunt Ellen took aquaint old gold ring from a moth-eaten case and gave it toRichard.
“Wear it to-night， nephew，” she begged. “Your mothergave it to me. Good luck in love she said it brought. Sheasked me to give it to you when you had found the oneyou loved.”
Young Rockwall took the ring reverently and tried it onhis smallest finger. It slipped as far as the second joint andstopped. He took it off and stuffed it into his vest pocket，after the manner of man. And then he ’phoned for his cab.
At the station he captured Miss Lantry out of thegadding mob at eight thirty-two.
“We mustn’t keep mamma and the others waiting，” saidshe.
“To Wallack’s Theatre as fast as you can drive！” saidRichard loyally.
They whirled up Forty-second to Broadway， and thendown the white-starred lane that leads from the softmeadows of sunset to the rocky hills of morning.
At Thirty-fourth Street young Richard quickly thrust upthe trap and ordered the cabman to stop.
“I’ve dropped a ring，” he apologised， as he climbed out.
“It was my mother’s， and I’d hate to lose it. I won’t detainyou a minute—I saw where it fell.”
In less than a minute he was back in the cab with thering.
But within that minute a crosstown car had stoppeddirectly in front of the cab. The cabman tried to pass tothe left， but a heavy express wagon cut him off. He triedthe right， and had to back away from a furniture van thathad no business to be there. He tried to back out， butdropped his reins and swore dutifully. He was blockadedin a tangled mess of vehicles and horses.
One of those street blockades had occurred that sometimestie up commerce and movement quite suddenly in the bigcity.
“Why don’t you drive on？” said Miss Lantry， impatiently.
“We’ll be late.”
Richard stood up in the cab and looked around. He sawa congested flood of wagons， trucks， cabs， vans and streetcars filling the vast space where Broadway， Sixth Avenueand Thirty-fourth street cross one another as a twentysixinch maiden fills her twenty-two inch girdle. And stillfrom all the cross streets they were hurrying and rattlingtoward the converging point at full speed， and hurlingthemselves into the struggling mass， locking wheelsand adding their drivers’ imprecations to the clamour.
The entire traffic of Manhattan seemed to have jammeditself around them. The oldest New Yorker among thethousands of spectators that lined the sidewalks had notwitnessed a street blockade of the proportions of this one.
