s and the strong fences and wide ditches of
their native country. Her brothers, Guy and Edwin, were fond of hunting
too, but they rode clumsily and awkwardly, floundering across country in
what their uncle called, contemptuously, a thoroughly "provincial style."
But Beatrice had the true Esterworth seat and hand; she looked as if she
were born to her saddle, and, in truth, she was never so happy as when
she was in it. It was a proof of how great and real was her love to
Herbert Pryme that she fully recognized that, in becoming his wife, she
would have to live in London entirely and to give up her beloved hunting
for his sake.

A woman who rides, as did Beatrice, is sure to be popular on a hunting
morning; and, with the consciousness of her lover's hands resting upon
the back of her chair, with her favourite uncle by her side, and with
several truly ardent admirers of her good riding about her, Miss Miller
was evidently enjoying herself thoroughly.

The scene, indeed, was animated to the last degree. The long dining-room
was filled with guests, the table was covered with good things, a repast,
half breakfast, half luncheon, being laid out upon it. Everybody helped
themselves, with much chattering and laughter, and there was a pleasant
sense of haste and excitement, and a charming informality about the
proceedings, which made the Shadonake Hunt breakfast, which Tom
Esterworth had been prevailed upon by his niece's entreaties to allow,
a thorough and decided success.

Outside there were the hounds, drawn up in patient expectation on the
grass beyond the gravel sweep, the bright coats and velvet caps of the
men, and the gray horses--on which it was the Meadowshire tradition that
they should be always mounted--standing out well against the dark
background of the leafless woods behind. Then there were a goodly company
who had not dismounted, and to whom glasses of sherry were being handed
by the servants, and who also were chattering to each other, or to those
on foot, whilst before the door, an object of interest to those within as
to those without, Sir John Kynaston was putting Miss Nevill upon her
horse.

There was not a man present who did not express his admiration for her
beauty and her grace; hardly a woman who did not instantly make some
depreciatory remark. The latter fact spoke perhaps more convincingly for
the undoubted success she had created than did the former.

Maurice was standing by one of the dining-roo