favourite; but, as the party turned their horses' heads towards the Hall, her gaiety became changed into something approaching to seriousness.

"What's the matter, Kate?" asked the squire. "Am I to be let off so easy, with all my bragging?"

"I am glad Madcap succeeded," replied Kate; "but, for the future, she shall only try her speed by chasing the cricket-ball."

The squire laughed, as he exclaimed, "You'll never make a sportsman, Kate."

CHAPTER XXXIII.

THE LAST DAY OF THE SEASON.

"It is too late; the life of all his blood
Is touched corruptibly."

"ROCKWOOD, Priestess, Cruiser," hallooed William, drafting the pack.

"Let's have Prudence," said the old whipper-in, standing by his son in the kennel. "She's a capital bitch, Prudence is."

Tom's favourite hound, Trimbush, stood, as usual, apart from his fellows, and, pressing his head close to Mr. Bolton's top-boots, uttered some threatening growls at a third person in the court. This was Jack Tiggle, equipped from head to foot for the chase, and entering,

for the first time in his life, upon the responsible duties of whipper-in. Attentively he watched the huntsman's proceedings, and kept a willing ear for any order from him.

"Trimbush, Trimbush," said Mr. Bolton, reprovingly, "you must be friends with Jack. Never be rusty with those in authority," continued the old whipper-in, stroking the hound's proudly bent neck.

"He doesn't relish Jack's fresh bit o' pink," said William.

66

No," responded Mr. Bolton; "he's aware that something's going on more than common."

66

Open that door, Jack," said William.

In an instant the command was obeyed, the selected hounds were permitted to leave the kennel, and, heading the well-trained pack, William proceeded with them towards the Hall, closely followed by Tom and Jack, the latter mounted on a fiery chestnut, which he managed with much skill and courage.

"Handle him gently," said Mr. Bolton; "he'll soften down in a minute or two."

In their way they had to pass Mrs. Tiggle's cottage. Long previous to being in view, the proud Mrs. Tiggle stood on the threshold, shading her face from the dazzling sunshine, and straining her eyes to catch sight of their coming. Peter Bumstead occupied a close station by her side, and held in his expansive hand a flagon of ale.

"I don't see 'em," said Mrs. Tiggle; "they're a plaguy long time."

"Calm ye'r hagitation, my dear Mrs. T-," said the gamekeeper; "they'll be here byan'-by."

A few rustics, in long smock-frocks, stood lolling against the palings of Mrs. Tiggle's garden, and some round-faced village children were sitting on the bank opposite, speaking in whispers about " young Mr. Tiggle," as they now termed him.

"Here they be," said a fat, chubby boy,

turning a summerset in the road, and skipping about with the delight of an escaped kid.

Mrs. Tiggle's heart gave an extra jump at this piece of intelligence, and sent the blood scarlet to her forehead.

The hounds came trotting in a group gaily down the lane, with their long waving tails plumed over their backs. Although the leader in the run, Trimbush was always the last hound to the meet. He travelled by the side of Mr. Bolton's horse, and acted the privileged favourite to the letter.

"Good morning," said William, checking his horse.

"Good morning, sir," replied Mrs. Tiggle, but gazing only upon her son. If the Emperor of all the Russias had been present, he would have been disregarded by Mrs. Tiggle.

"He looks like business, ma'am, doesn't he?" inquired Mr. Bolton.

"Beautiful, beautiful!" exclaimed the gra