t now indeed all things were at an end, that no hope lay
anywhere; and now February is upon them, and Spring begins to assert
itself, and the land has learned to smile again, and all the pretty
early buds are swelling in the hedgerows.

I wonder they don't get tired of swelling only to die in the long run.
What does their perseverance gain for them? There is a little sunshine,
a little warmth, the songs of a few birds flung across their trailing
beauty, and then one heavy shower, and then--death! What a monotonous
thing is nature, when all is told? Each year is but a long day; each
life but a long year: at morn we rise, at night we lay our weary heads
upon our pillows: at morn we rise again, and so on. As Winter comes our
flowers fade and die; Spring brings them back again; again the Winter
kills them, and so--forever!

Now Spring has come once more to the old Court, to commence its
triumphant reign, regardless of the fact that no matter how bright its
day may be while it lasts, still dissolution stares it in the face. The
young grass is thrusting its head above ground, a few brave birds are
singing on the barren branches. There is a stir, a strange vague flutter
everywhere of freshly-opening life.

"We shall have to shake off dull sloth pretty early to-morrow," says
Dicky Browne, suddenly, _apropos_ of nothing that has gone before; his
usual method of introducing a subject.

"Why?" asks Portia, almost startled. It is nearly five o'clock, and Mr.
Browne, having sequestrated the remainder of the cake, the last piece
being the occasion of a most undignified skirmish between him and the
Boodie, the Boodie proving victor, is now at liberty to enter into light
and cheerful conversation.

"The meet, you know," says Dicky. "Long way off. Hate hunting myself,
when I've got to leave my bed for it."

"You needn't go," says Dulce; "nobody is pressing you."

"Oh! I'm not like _you_," says Mr. Browne, contemptuously, "liking a
thing to-day and hating it to-morrow. You used to be a sort of modern--I
mean--decent Diana, but lately you have rather shirked the whole thing."

"I had a cold last day, and--and a headache the day before that,"
stammers Dulce, blushing scarlet.

"Nobody could hunt with a headache," says Roger, at which defence Mr.
Browne grins.

"Well, you've got _them_ over," he says. "What's going to keep you at
home to-morrow?"

"I don't understand you, Dicky," says Miss Blount, with dignity. "I am
going hun