look. Where had she seen somebody like him?

A tiny sound from Winton made her turn her head. The fox--stealing
out beyond those further bushes! Breathless, she fixed her eyes on
her father's face. It was hard as steel, watching. Not a sound, not a
quiver, as if horse and man had turned to metal. Was he never going to
give the view-halloo? Then his lips writhed, and out it came. Gyp cast a
swift smile of gratitude at the young man for having had taste and sense
to leave that to her father, and again he smiled at her. There were the
first hounds streaming out--one on the other--music and feather! Why
didn't Dad go? They would all be round this way in a minute!

Then the black mare slid past her, and, with a bound, her horse
followed. The young man on the chestnut was away on the left. Only the
hunts-man and one whip--beside their three selves! Glorious! The brown
horse went too fast at that first fence and Winton called back: "Steady,
Gyp! Steady him!" But she couldn't; and it didn't matter. Grass, three
fields of grass! Oh, what a lovely fox--going so straight! And each
time the brown horse rose, she thought: "Perfect! I CAN ride! Oh, I am
happy!" And she hoped her father and the young man were looking. There
was no feeling in the world like this, with a leader like Dad, hounds
moving free, good going, and the field distanced. Better than dancing;
better--yes, better than listening to music. If one could spend one's
life galloping, sailing over fences; if it would never stop! The new
horse was a darling, though he DID pull.

She crossed the next fence level with the young man, whose low chestnut
mare moved with a stealthy action. His hat was crammed down now, and his
face very determined, but his lips still had something of that smile.
Gyp thought: "He's got a good seat--very strong, only he looks like
'thrusting.' Nobody rides like Dad--so beautifully quiet!" Indeed,
Winton's seat on a horse was perfection, all done with such a minimum
expenditure. The hounds swung round in a curve. Now she was with them,
really with them! What a pace--cracking! No fox could stand this long!

And suddenly she caught sight of him, barely a field ahead, scurrying
desperately, brush down; and the thought flashed through her: 'Oh! don't
let's catch you. Go on, fox; go on! Get away!' Were they really all
after that little hunted red thing--a hundred great creatures, horses
and men and women and dogs, and only that one little fox! But the