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bolted with her-the poor beggar seemed to have an awful hump." But presently the man said, "You scem a cup low to-night, old chap?" The melancholy stroke of the Temple clock had never sounded so lugubrious as in the hours that followed.

When he woke in the morning, Orlebar remembered that there ought to be a half-bottle of Pommery in the bathroom, and he had it in lieu of tea, with some biscuits. The wine lightened his mood a little; it no longer seemed so hopelessly impossible to conceal his regret; and when he strode into the station, it was with a very fair show of impatience. heart leapt as he saw that she wasn't there. on a couch, glancing alternately at the clock and the doors, and praying that she wouldn't come.

She entered just as he was feeling sanguine.

66

But his He sat

My darling!" he murmured, "here you are!" "Am I late?"

"I was beginning to be afraid.

But there's time enough-I've got the tickets Where's your luggage?" "They've taken it through."

"Doesn't it to you?"

His tone was

"I think it's true," she said, with a tired smile. "How pale you are!" he repeated. "Didn't you sleep?"

"Not much. I've been wondering." "Wondering? What?"

"Whether I ought to have said 'no.' What would you have done if I'd said 'no,' Phil? Really?”

"What can a man do? I suppose I should have had to put up with it."

She didn't reply for a moment. She was gazing straight before her, with a frown.

"Do you think me a bad woman, Phil?" "I think you're the best woman I've ever known.” "It looks like it, doesn't it!”

"The force of circumstances ! If you had met me be ore you met him

"But I didn't. It's pretty mean of me to spoil his life, isn't it?"

"I didn't know that he cared so much about you?"

Of

"Oh"-she hesitated- "we've quarrelled, like everybody else, but-but he's very fond of me. course, it'll be an awful blow. I can't forget it—I've been thinking of it ever since."

"It just depends . . . the thing you've got to consider is which way you'll be happier yourself. If I don't know! I suppose there are women who can't go wrong and be happy!"

"I'm thinking of my duty," she faltered. "You know I love you, don't you? I want you to know it, to keep remembering it all the time I love you, I love you, I love you! But She waited with her heart in her throat.

"But what?" he asked, moodily. "What were you going to say?"

Her eyes closed with the pain.

"Eh?" he said.

"There are his people," she stammered; "they'll feel the disgrace so much. I've been considering everything -I-I didn't know what a wrench it would be."

'If you feel like that," he said feebly, "of course I hardly-I hardly know what I can say to you." "You can't think of anything to say?" she pleaded. "There's nothing-nothing I'm overlooking?" "There's time; one gets over anything in time," he said incautiously.

"Oh, my God, I was mad!" she moaned.

She turned to the window, her face as white as a dead woman's. The terror was confirmed that had stolen on her in the cab, that had haunted her throughout the night, confirmed by his tones, his looks, by every answer he had made to her halting falsehoods he had learnt to do without her, she had given herself unsought! In the agony of shame that overwhelmed her she could have thrown herself from the compartment; and, mark this it was only her love for him that restrained her-she would not reproach him by deed, or word, he shouldn't be burdened by the knowledge of what he had made her suffer.

"Well," he said, “it's not too late." "No," she muttered, "I can't go !"

His pulses jumped; for an instant he couldn't trust his voice.

'Don't worry about me-I want you to be happy. To tell you the truth, I think you're right-you're not the woman to kick over the traces, you'd be too cut up about it. Go back and make the best of a bad business it'll be easier for you to bear than the other, anyhow! We'll see about a train for you as soon as we get in."

At Folkestone Harbour they ascertained that there would be an express to Charing Cross at two o'clock, and he paced the platform with her till it was time to say "good-bye." Exhilaration had given him an appetite, but she answered that she wasn't hungry; so, as he had missed his boat, he decided to drive to an hotel on the Leas and have an elaborate luncheon when she had gone. His glances at the playbills on the walls showed him that San Toy was at the Pleasure Gardens, and he foresaw himself cheerfully among the audience in the evening. He was feeling on a sudden twenty years younger, and, hard as he strove to acquire a manner of tender gravity, she discerned the improvement in his spirits every time he spoke.

Her train arrived in town at a few minutes to four, and she re-entered the lodging-house some hours earlier than her husband. But the fire had gone out, and she had to wait shivering till it was lighted before she could burn the note that she had left on the mantelpiece for him. A little box addressed to her had been delivered during her absence. When th slatternly servant left her alone at last, the woman dared to touch it-and fell to sobbing as if her heart would burst. It contained the violets that Orlebar had sent her in token of his love.

The box had been redirected from Paris. Owing to the delay, the violets, now that they reached her, were quite dead.

LEONARD MERRICK.

The Meynell

As is only befitting a Hunt whose list of subscribers comprises some of the richest men in the country, everything is done on a first-class scale with the Meynell Hounds. Even in Leicestershire there is not a better-mounted field, and with such followers over a flying grass country, the Master and the hunt servants naturally have to be on the best of "cattle." And Mr. Gerald Hardy certainly mounts his men most adequately, and does well by the hunt in every way. For eight seasons Mr. Hardy hunted the Atherstone Hounds, bringing that pack to a high state of excellence in that time. Two years ago the Meynell country became vacant, and the members were glad to obtain the services of their present M.F. H., who is really a Meynell man bred and born, and a large landed proprietor in the district.

In the North Warwickshire Country

The good work that a new broom does is proverbial, and we are reminded of the saying by the present situation in the North Warwickshire country,

where excellent sport has been enjoyed so far this season. The new broom in this instance is the huntsman, James Cockayne, whose rapid grasp of the requirements of a strange country is being most favourably commented on. Cockayne is a typical specimen of the professional huntsman, hard-bitten, a bold rider, and clever in the management of his hounds. His success in North Warwickshire seems likely to be lasting, and is only what was expected by those who hunted with him in the Old Surrey and Puckeridge countries. Cockayne has the advantage of working under a Master who is at once a fine horseman, splendidly mounted, and immensely popular

with the farmers and all followers of the pack. He is always up with his hounds, and able to keep a hard-riding field in good order, and this assistance alone is simply invaluable to a huntsman in an important country. The North Warwickshire country comes within the charmed hunting circle known as the Shires, but it is less fashionably patronised than some of its neighbours. This, of course, does not affect the quality of the sport shown by the hounds, and though the fields at the North Warwickshire meets may not be quite so brilliant as those with the Warwickshire and Pytchley, they are generally very large, especially at those fixtures most convenient for Leamington.

followers over their land than a mass of riders in "rat-catcher" get-up.

His Majesty at Crichel

Crichel, the delightful Dorsetshire home of the Sturts, which was recently honoured by a visit by the King, has always been famous as a sporting estate. It abounds in game, and it is pleasant, therefore, to find the foxhounds welcomed there. In the old days the coverts were well-stocked with foxes, and doubtless the present Lord Alington, who succeeded to the title and estates less than two years ago, will not neglect the interests of his fox hunting friends. The King was a keen follower of hounds at one time, and the annals of the Grafton, Pytchley, and other Hunts, record his presence in the field on a number of occasions. His Majesty does not now ride to hounds, but he appreciates the picturesque spectacle of a lawn meet on a fine winter morning.

hounds to held office

the greatest praise for bringing the their present splendid quality. He from 1888 to 1894, and during that period dev ted himself so whole-heartedly to the task of breeding one of the finest packs in the kingdor, that when he offered the hounds to the Hunt on his retirement, £2,500 was the price fixed by the arbitrator, the late Lord Willoughby de Broke, and the Hunt bought them for that amount. One fault has been found with the folowers of the North Warwickshire, this being a certain indifference as to costume in the field. The wearing of scarlet should in every Hunt be regarded by members and subscribers as a mark of respect to the Master, and it is, moreover, an incontrovertible fact that the farmers are far better pleased to see red-coated

And the meet of Lord Portman's Hounds will have been particularly interesting to him, their M.F.H. being the doven of Master of Foxhounds. While at Crichel the King looked over the famous White Farm, which is of never-failing interest. The late Lord Alington gathered its white stock from all

parts of the world. The Sultan of Turkey sent the mule and the peacocks, and every animal at the farm is whitedeer, horses, cows, dogs, turkeys, geese, rabbits, pigeons, and mice, even the pet thrush being an albino.

Our special photographer's tour among the Irish countries has brought him this week to the Co. Galway, one of the most famous and oldest of Irish hunts. Its praises have been sung by native writers galore, and one we'l-remembered couplet runs thus:

If yez want for grand sport, faith ye'd bet.er resort
To neglected, but grand-goin' Galway.

And that the pleasures of Galway hunting are neglected is probably as true to day as when those lines were written, English sportsmen who cross the St. George's Channel for the Irish hunting se'dom getting so far west as Co. Galway. For much

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