underneath
but speak to her, or give her a cat to deal with, be it bigger than
herself, and what an incarnation of affection, energy, and fury--what a
fell unquenchable little ruffian.

_The Maid of Lorn_ was a chestnut mare, a broken down racer,
thorough-bred as Beeswing, but less fortunate in her life, and I fear
not so happy _occasione mortis_: unlike the Duchess, her body was
greater and finer than her soul; still she was a ladylike creature,
sleek, slim, nervous, meek, willing, and fleet. She had been thrown down
by some brutal half-drunk Forfarshire laird, when he put her wildly and
with her wind gone, at the last hurdle on the North Inch at the Perth
races. She was done for and bought for ten pounds by the landlord of the
Drummond Arms, Crieff, who had been taking as much money out of her, and
putting as little corn into her as was compatible with life, purposing
to run her for the Consolation Stakes at Stirling. Poor young lady, she
was a sad sight--broken in back, in knees, in character, and wind--in
everything but temper, which was as sweet and all-enduring as Penelope's
or our own Enid's.

Of myself, the fourth, I decline making any account. Be it sufficient
that I am the Dutchard's master, and drove the gig.

It was, as I said, a keen and bright morning, and the S. Q. N. feeling
chilly, and the Duchess being away after a cat up a back entry, doing a
chance stroke of business, and the mare looking only half breakfasted, I
made them give her a full feed of meal and water, and stood by and
enjoyed her enjoyment. It seemed too good to be true, and she looked up
every now and then in the midst of her feast, with a mild wonder. Away
she and I bowled down the sleeping village, all overrun with sunshine,
the dumb idiot man and the birds alone up, for the ostler was off to his
straw. There was the S. Q. N. and her small panting friend, who had lost
the cat, but had got what philosophers say is better--the chase. "_Nous
ne cherchons jamais les choses, mais la recherche des choses_," says
Pascal. The Duchess would substitute for _les choses_--_les chats_.
Pursuit, not possession, was her passion. We all got in, and off set the
Maid, who was in excellent heart, quite gay, pricking her ears and
casting up her head, and rattling away at a great pace.

We baited at St. Fillans, and again cheered the heart of the Maid with
unaccustomed corn--the S. Q. N., Duchie, and myself, going up to the
beautiful rising ground at t