spite of himself his heart sank. It cannot be had gradually changed to Can it be?' and from that to It must be so.' As he heard her return and go upstairs without coming in to speak to him, he felt that all his happiness was gone. It was so unlike

her usual way. She knows what she has done, and is afraid to face me,' he thought. Twelve o'clock struck, and then one; still he sat there with his head in his hands. At last he arose and went deliberately upstairs. On the landing he found Havis's

French maid, who effaced herself and let him pass into her mistress's room. There was only a glimmer of light; she lay with her face turned away from him and did not move. By her side lay an unopened letter, arrived by the last post. The handwriting seemed familiar to him. He stood and looked down on the prostrate childish figure. His heart beat so loudly that he could scarcely speak.

By-and-bye he found his voice. Havis moved restlessly, and half turned round. Her eyes met his; her face was flushed and all its childish bloom was gone.

'Did you meet Farquhar to-day?'

'Yes,' answered Havis; 'oh! I feel so ill. I am feverish, I think.'

6

And did you write this letter?' continued he.

Havis sat up on the bed and took the note from his hand.

'Yes,' she said, and what do you think I did? Put it into the wrong envelope, so that when I got to Effie's I found she did not expect me. Look! here is Effie's letter sending the other back! But I suppose Tom told you, as he was to be at the Zulus to-night?'

It was many a day before Lady D'Abernon's delicate constitution and slight frame got over the fatigues of that country ride, and the effects of the severe chill she caught, but the next morning Lady Mildred got a letter from Charley which completely satisfied her mind, though Tom sometimes even now wonders to himself, 'How did she manage that? Clever little woman!'

NOVEMBER, the first of months in the calendar of hunting men, is once more with us. It seems difficult to believe that the country, with its springy turf and cleared fields, can be the same which but four short weeks ago was dried and baked to the consistency of macadam, or mantled with waving yellow clouds of waist-high crops. The curtain is up, the rehearsals are over, and the play begins.

The first of November-our opening day! What visions of bygone years it conjures up! How it excited our minds ever before the time we owned a pony, when our long-suffering but unsporting governess was dragged, nolens volens, to the important tryst! As we grew older the happiest of all Novembers arrived, when we proudly rode our first pony to the opening meet, the wheezy, unwilling groom-gardener tugging at the leading-rein and expostulating vainly. It is all as fresh in our minds as if it had happened yesterday. The find, with its crash of glorious music, startling our unaccustomed ears, making every nerve in the body tingle, and almost halting the pulse; the view of the little red rascal, slipping like an eel through a broken paling, and vanishing like a ghost through the hedgerow; then the beautiful spectacle of the pied mass of eager hounds, flinging their wild, belllike notes of joyous melody as they swept swiftly past our fascinated gaze; the exciting cries of the whips and huntsman; the exhila

rating fanfare of the horn; the dashing impetuosity of the hurrying field-all these combined to produce a feeling of enchanting delirium, which even now, though familiarity is said to breed contempt, the first find of the season never fails to reproduce. Then the run! Shall we ever forget it? For though now we know it must have been a cub, and a bad plucked one at that, who dodged in and out of the covert for half an hour and ended ignominiously, being dragged by his brush from a rabbit burrow, yet at the time we thought the wide world could contain no greater delight. We recollect that the blooding' by old Ben the huntsman produced at first anything but pleasurable feelings, possibly because totally unprepared for and ignorant of the importance of the ordeal. Some resistance was even offered, until assured by laughing friends of the necessity and honour of

the rite. Afterwards, when the youthful mind had grasped the situation, that bloody smear became our most cherished possession. Not only did we sleep in it, but, to the disgust of our cleanly nurse, we prevailed upon our indulgent parents to allow what had

not worn off to grace our unwashed face till bedtime on the day following.

The next season, by assiduous practice during the intervening summer, that blissful time arrived when the hated leading-rein could be discarded. Oh, the joy of that November! when, untrammelled by aught save our old friend the groom-gardener, now mounted on the plethoric old cob Robin, we gaily took the field. Our dear old pony! A picture of him lays beside us as we write. What a clinker he must have been, and what chums. we were! Here he is-a bright bay, standing at a guess about 12.2, with a small, well-set, blood-like head, undeniable shoulders (so rare in a pony), perfect legs and feet, a mane and tail which never grew coarse, and an eye human in its intelligence. What a sportsman he was too, keen as mustard, yet so easily restrained by the single snaffle in which we rode him! Oh, the dance we used to lead poor puffing Robin and his complaining burden! In spite of parental admonitions, warnings, and even threats of reversion to the abhorred leading-rein, we rarely came home from hunting in company of our guardian. You see Robin and his rider. were never happy except on the roads, and as our inclinations led towards greater enterprise, it was only natural we should experience some difficulty in keeping together. Thanks to the dear old pony we never came to very serious grief. Times without number we fell off, but it was invariably owing to the instability of our seat-the pony could not fall; and such was his nature that, with but one exception, he never failed to pull up and wait for us to get on again. To that exception hangs a tale, the circumstances of which are indelibly impressed upon our memory.

We were then rising eleven, and accompanied by Robin and Co. (as usual) went to a meet at the big woodlands. Hounds had no sooner begun to draw than (also as usual) we managed to lose our conductors, in accomplishing which manoeuvre we found ourselves quite alone in a tangled narrow ride, long disused. Rejoicing in our liberty, we listened to the merry cheer of old Ben, as his darlings spread questing the bracken, brakes, and briarwoven thickets. Soon we heard with joy a note which proclaimed a find, quickly followed by a 'Yoi over, over!' attesting a view. A full chorus succeeded as the hounds drew together on the scent. How the glad song thundered and died away, to thunder again through the echoing woodland! At one time it sounded quite near, then gradually receded, until, had it not been for the fear of falling in with Robin and Co., our dread of being left would have led us to vacate our hiding-place. However, our naughtiness (contrary to