good-looking one you are riding, Miss Bloxam, and up to
a stone or two more than your weight, as a lady's horse always should
be."

"I don't know about that," replied Blanche, laughing. "I am tall, and
by no means of the thread-paper order. King Cole," she continued.
leaning forward to pat the glossy neck of her black favourite, "would
probably tell you he found me quite enough on his back, could he be
consulted. He is as good, too, as he is handsome, as I shall perhaps
have an opportunity of showing you to-day."

"How so?" inquired Beauchamp.

"Well, we very often on these excursions to Trotbury ride there
quietly, and then lark home. There is a lovely piece of galloping
ground over Tapton Downs, and a charming cut across country this side
of it, by which we can save nearly a mile."

"That'll be great fun," replied Beauchamp, "and I advocate strongly
such a saving of distance on our homeward journey. This is one of your
father's hunters I am riding, is it not?"

"Yes, and a grand jumper he is too: accustomed to papa's weight,
carrying you will be quite play to him."

Arrived at Trotbury, the first thing, as Jim remarked, was obviously to
order lunch at "The Sweet Waters;" fortified with which they could then
proceed to do the cathedral, and spend as much time as seemed good to
them over that noble pile.

"There are all sorts of tombs and chapels to see," continued Jim, "with
more than an average crop of historical legends concerning them; and
the vergers have all the characteristics of that class: once upset them
in their parrot-like description, and they flounder about in most
comical manner. The last time I was here they showed me the tomb of
St. Gengulphus, with an effigy of that eminent clergyman--considerably
damaged about the nose--in stone, on the top. I appealed to the verger
gravely to know if it was considered a good likeness. He was staggered
for a moment, and then replied hurriedly that it was. But, thank
goodness, here comes the lunch. I feel as hungry as an unsuccessful
hawk."

"Too bad of you, too bad, Mr. Cottrell," exclaimed Sylla Chipchase;
"you were not one of the riding party, and so I have had no opportunity
as yet of rebuking you for your forgetfulness: you had no business to
forget the name of that French song I told you to recommend to my aunt."

"Allow me to observe, Miss Sylla, that I don't consider I deserve much
rebuke on the subject. I quite remembered your message to