"Then it's better as it is. Well, I shouldn't wonder if we do have a gallop. One generally drops into sport after a frost; and it's a rare good country. I say, Percy, that's a charming woman we came down with in the train."

"We! You mean you. I had nothing to do with it. I never was more surprised in my life than when I found her here."

Each gentleman puffed out a volume of smoke, and looked in the other's face. Horace would have given a great deal to ask his friend a single question; Percy had every inclination personally to satisfy the other's curiosity, but both felt that between them there was a woman's secret, and respected it accordingly.

"Have some soda-water ?" asked Maxwell, after a pause, pouring a little brandy into a glass the size of a stable-pail. "I tell you I don't think I ever heard such a player before. I wouldn't have believed a piano-forte could be made to do so much."

"How its legs will fill to-morrow," said Percy; "like Barmecide's when you've had your fun out of him in this deep ground. I thought you hated music, Horace ?"

"Not such music as that," answered Maxwell, indignantly. "It was enough to make a fellow cry. Lexley did. At least, I saw him take out his handkerchief."

"He seems rather a good fellow, that long parson, though he is a friend of yours," yawned Mortimer. "I shall be off to bed when I've finished this cigar."

"I wonder if she's going to stay," continued the other, still harping on the musician. "I should like to hear her play again."

"She'll stay longer than you do," replied his friend; "and play whenever she is asked. I fancy she is a sort of companion to Mrs. Dennison. The niece told me all about it in the drawing-room, only she said they made a secret of the whole thing."

"Women always make secrets," observed Maxwell, lighting his candle.

"And always let them out," said Mortimer.

"Good-night."

CHAPTER V.

PLUMPTON OZIERS.

FOR any purpose but hunting, a less promising morning has seldom dawned than that which met Mr. Foster's eyes as he opened his dressing-room window and looked out. The storm had lulled indeed, but a steady warm rain fell persistently, and already there were few patches of snow to be seen, even in the most sheltered corners of the park.

"Hounds might run to-day," thought the M. F. H. while he shaved.

"And if there's anything like a scent in that country, a run from the Oziers means about the best thing of the season. We're sure to find; No doubt of that, I think. Hang it! I hope Potter will get his hounds away together. What a mess he made of it last time!" Then he cut himself and went to his wife's room for sticking-plaster. While he adjusted a patch, what a number of things he thought of, and how many were calculated to mar his anticipations of enjoyment! Where were they likely to leave off? And how should he arrange for his second draw? If the fox made his point for Stockwell Lings, the line would be straight across Screwman's farm, and next day's post was safe to bring him a complaint for damage done to young wheat; whereas if he faced the Vale, with the hope of reaching Marston main earths, the hounds would run right through the park at Lower Plumpton, a district literally alive with hares, and there would be six couple of puppies out whom he could trust only where they had no temptation to riot. Then Jim, the second whip, a very useful lad, was inclined to be delicate, so a thorough wetting would do him no good; while it was Whitethorn's turn to carry Potter, and like many others, he was not quite a good horse in deep ground. Forty minutes on a day like this would be sure to see him out. Altogether, by the time the M. F. H. got down to breakfast he had created a whole catalogue of failures and contingencies, any one of which would be sufficient to spoil his day's

amusement.

A man need be very fond of hunting to undertake the management of a country, even under the most favourable circumstances. Mr. Foster was devoted, heart and soul, to the chase. No doubt he had his reward.

Coming down to breakfast, he became, of course, the object of attention to all. Annie sugared and creamed his tea, with the utmost nicety; Miss Blair handed him an egg; the butler cut for him the thinnest slices of ham and brought the hottest kidney; while Uncle John, munching dry toast, reiterated his conviction that Plumpton Oziers would prove a sure find and afford the moral certainty of a run.

Breakfast was a cheerful meal at the Priors, perhaps none the less so that Aunt Emily made a practice of appearing late, although, on occasions like the present, when she came down in her bonnet, she was apt to make up for lost time by unusual abruptness of manner and brevity of reply.

Annie Dennison, in her aunt's absence, sat at one end of the table to make te. She was very pretty in a riding-habit, with her abundant hair coiled into a silky crown over her brows. Percy on one side, and Miss Blair on the other, observed, with different feelings, how pleasant and bright and fresh she looked.

"No red coat, Mr. Mortimer ?" exclaimed Annie, as that gentleman

stretched an arm, clad in convict's grey, to reach the toast. "What an insult to Tiptop! I hope you have not dressed yourself so badly because you are going to ride with me?"

"The very privilege that makes me regret I didn't bring hunting things," answered Mortimer. "My get-up is even worse, I fear, below the waist. Something between a Low Church bishop and a man going to buy pigs. Don't ask me to bring you anything from the side-table, Miss Dennison."

While he spoke Lexley made his appearence, and finding his usual seat occupied looked wistfully towards an empty place by Miss Blair. His heart failed him, however, and he took a chair opposite with an embarrassment of manner that did not escape so shrewd an observer. Even while she wondered what made Mr. Maxwell late she began to suspect that here was another captive of her bow and spear.

"I hope you slept well and had pleasant dreams, Mr. Lexley," said Annie, who had no idea of resigning any of her regular admirers. "Five minutes ago I could have given you a much stronger cup of tea."

"I never dream," answered the clergyman; then, catching Miss Blair's eye, coloured, made an awkward bow, looked foolish, and spilt his tea; while that lady, who read him like a book, preserved an appearance of complete unconsciousness, as only a woman can.

"I dreamt of Miss Blair's music," said the untruthful Mortimer, who slept like a top, and was little given to visions of fancy by night or day. "As for Horace, I have no doubt he is dreaming still. You had better send up to him, Mr. Dennison. If he gets the chance, he is quite capable of remaining in bed till the end of the week. Every fellow, you know, has his own particular gifts."

"There is plenty of time," answered Uncle John, looking at his watch. "Nobody need start for half an hour yet. And I do believe it is going to clear."

Liberal and encouraging as was the announcement, it caused a general break up. Annie had to adjust her riding-hat, Miss Blair to put on "her things." Mortimer liked to smoke a cigarette before starting, and Lexley went to search the hall for his great coat. Even Mrs. Foster had finished breakfast when Horace Maxwell came down, so he drank his tea tête à tête with Aunt Emily, and afterwards confided to his friend that "he had a roughish time of it, and would take care not to be late again."

Nevertheless, before the party could get under weigh, there was little time to spare. Mr. Foster, on his hack, had been gone half an hour; though he would wait for them, of course, it was the one thing of all others that destroyed his equanimity for the day, so the carriages were started with as little delay as possible, and Lexley found himself, to his unspeakable happiness, packed into the waggonette opposite Miss Blair. Their host was a good weather prophet, and he had not

even the drawback of holding an umbrella to keep off the rain. Annie Dennison and Mortimer jogged on together: Sweep rather fidgety and troublesome; Tiptop in unruffled composure, as scorning to waste his energies till required for real business. The young lady looked back more than once. Mr. Maxwell, she was afraid, would never find the bridle-way across the meadows by himself. She hoped the young horse would carry him safely; he did not always behave quite as well as he ought.

But Barmecide and his rider were occupied in making each other's acquaintance, and this is the way an intimacy was brought about:

Maxwell, crossing the hall to the stables, peeped into the den where Uncle John wrote his letters, to apologize for having no hunting things-"not even a pair of spurs !" and he glanced down at his drab breeches and black boots; "though perhaps that is all the betterthey only tear a horse to pieces if he falls."

So congenial a sentiment sank gratefully in the ears of Uncle John, who loved a hunter as his own child, and could forgive the animal anything if it had but courage.

"Barmecide don't require spurs," said he. "Quite the reverse; as I told you last night, he wants a light hand, but my servants don't know how to bit him. If I were a younger man, I should like him better than anything in the stable."

"Can you give me a hint how to ride him ?" asked Horace, with modest deference.

"Yes, I can," answered his good-natured host. "Send him along as if he was your own. Go into every field with the hounds. Don't be afraid he's as near thoroughbred as possible-he's quite fit to go, and a hard day will do him all the good in the world."

With so liberal a margin to his sailing orders, Horace stalked into the stable-yard, and mounted in the utmost confidence.

The helper who brought out Barmecide was the same the horse had run away with ten days before. He looked up in the rider's face with a broad grin.

"Mind as he does'nt bolt with you, sir," said he. "I've took the curb in as tight as ever it will go; but he's a hard-mouthed one, he is, and if once he gets his head I don't think as a giant would be able to stop him."

"Thank ye, my lad," answered Horace, pulling his stirrups to the right length, while he sidled out of the yard, Barmecide curvetting and passaging in as uncomfortable a manner as could well be imagined.

No sooner was he hidden from sight by an angle of the shrubbery than he leapt lightly down, took the curb off altogether, and put it in his pocket. While doing so, he could not fail to admire the points and beauty of the animal he was going to ride.

"Fifteen three, and a bit," thought Maxwell; "brown, with tan muzzle; large flat legs; long muscular shoulders; a back like a prize-fighter's; a head like a lady's, and a game wild eye that means facing anything at any pace while hounds are running. I do hope we shall have some fun together to-day; for I think I never saw a better looking horse in my life!"

Then he jumped quickly into the saddle, and started at a canter across the park.

Barmecide, expecting the usual torture from a heavy-handed stableboy, plunged, reached at his bridle, shook his head violently, and finding his mouth still quite comfortable, bent his neck to lay himself out for a gallop, with a snort of approval and delight. Ere the pair arrived at the Lodge they were on the best of terms, and understood each other perfectly.

"You're a flyer!" said Maxwell aloud, as he subsided into a trot, and emerged on the turnpike road.

Yes, sir," answered the old woman who opened the gate, never doubting but his observation was addressed to herself.

Half a mile further on, he spied Miss Dennison and her companion cantering along a bridle-road, two fields off. Without hesitation he turned from the highway to ride at a fair hunting fence, which his horse jumped beautifully, and clearing a flight of rails out of the next enclosure, joined them in a state of considerable satisfaction and selfconfidence.

"How nicely he goes with you!" said Miss Annie, “and how pleased Uncle John will be! Look; you can see Plumpton Bridge now, just at the bend of the brook. The carriages must have got there before us, for I declare Mr. Foster is moving off already.”

The three then put their horses into a canter and made for the place of meeting. Barmecide did not go quite so pleasantly in company, and Horace, whose fearlessness was the result of skill, not ignorance, felt he should like his mount better if it would but take example by the calm disciplined courage of old Tiptop.

There was no time to lose. Plumpton Oziers, a flat square willowbed, of about four acres, with a dry bank of thorns and brushwood overhanging it on the north side, was the kind of covert that a good fox leaves at short notice. As it lay only half a mile off Plumpton Bridge there was a chance of it's being disturbed by some of the foot people who congregate at a favourite meet, and Mr. Foster always seemed anxious to get his hounds into it as quickly as possible. To draw Plumpton Oziers blank was one of the calamities that haunted his dreams. To-day he appeared in a greater hurry than usual. The change in the weather had been so unexpected, the thaw so sudden, that few regular attendants thought of coming. The carriages from the Priors, two or three squires who lived close at hand, half a dozen 2 G

VOL. XXXIX.