terribly disgusted while staying at the
"Yellow" inn, to find that the people of the town would treat him as
though he were rolling in wealth. He was soon tired of Tankerville,
and as he could do nothing further, on the spot, till the time for
canvassing should come on, about ten days previous to the election,
he returned to London, somewhat at a loss to know how to bestir
himself. But in London he received a letter from another old friend,
which decided him:--

My dear Mr. Finn, [said the letter] of course you know
that Oswald is now master of the Brake hounds. Upon my
word, I think it is the place in the world for which he is
most fit. He is a great martinet in the field, and works
at it as though it were for his bread. We have been here
looking after the kennels and getting up the horses since
the beginning of August, and have been cub-hunting ever so
long. Oswald wants to know whether you won't come down to
him till the election begins in earnest.

We were so glad to hear that you were going to appear
again. I have always known that it would be so. I have
told Oswald scores of times that I was sure you would
never be happy out of Parliament, and that your real
home must be somewhere near the Treasury Chambers. You
can't alter a man's nature. Oswald was born to be a master
of hounds, and you were born to be a Secretary of State.
He works the hardest and gets the least pay for it; but
then, as he says, he does not run so great a risk of being
turned out.

We haven't much of a house, but we have plenty of room for
you. As for the house, it was a matter of course, whether
good or bad. It goes with the kennels, and I should as
little think of having a choice as though I were one of
the horses. We have very good stables, and such a stud! I
can't tell you how many there are. In October it seems as
though their name were legion. In March there is never
anything for any body to ride on. I generally find then
that mine are taken for the whips. Do come and take
advantage of the flush. I can't tell you how glad we shall
be to see you. Oswald ought to have written himself, but
he says--; I won't tell you what he says. We shall take no
refusal. You can have nothing to do before you are wanted
at Tankerville.

I was so sorry to hear of your great loss. I hardly know
whether to mention it or to be silent in writing. I