miled, but soon relapsed into his former gravity.

"A penny for your thoughts, Stan!" said Mrs. Moncrief.

"Oh, I was only thinking of one of the Beetles--Wyndham. I was wondering
whether we should see anything of him during the vac."

"Would you like to meet him?" asked Mr. Moncrief.

"Very much."

Paul said nothing; but he felt a keen sense of gratification at the
words that fell from Stanley. It showed that all animosity towards
Wyndham had completely vanished, and that he was anxious to meet him
again, not as an enemy, but on a footing of friendship.

Mr. Moncrief was absent for a good part of the next day. On the day
following he announced that he was going to take them for a drive in the
wagonette. They were, of course, anxious to know where.

"Well, Harry has asked me once or twice whether we couldn't travel over
some of the ground over which Paul travelled on the night when he broke
in upon us here at the end of his last vacation. I think this is the
most favourable opportunity we shall have to carry out his suggestion,
if you're all agreeable."

Of course they were agreeable. So, early the next morning, the wagonette
came to the door, and the little party, in the best of spirits, started
on the drive.

No contrast could have been greater than the contrast between that
morning of bright sunshine and the night when Paul started from Redmead
with Mr. Moncrief. On that never-to-be-forgotten night danger seemed to
be lurking in every hedgerow. The shadows lay thickly across their
pathway, and the sight of home had never been so dear to Paul as when he
at length came in sight of it that night. How different it all seemed in
the bright sunshine!

By an indirect route they came to the common over which Paul had ridden
on Falcon. They stopped at the spot where Zuker and his confederate had
seized Falcon's bridle. Then they turned back, and paused once more
where the brave horse had staggered and fallen. Paul had not seen the
place since, and as they reached it, he lived once again through the
incidents of those few terrible moments when the life-blood of Falcon
was slowly oozing away. He could see it lying there; he could see the
crimson stream running from its flank, the look of pathos in its eyes as
it turned to him.

"I think we will drive on," said Mr. Moncrief gently. "We owe a good
deal to Falcon, so I mean to have a little memorial to his memory some
day--to the memory of a noble horse. There are som