n over her
brows, and her boots, over which Brindlebury had evidently expended
himself, showing off her slender feet.

They breakfasted alone; but Burton's mind ran on the loss of the
miniature, and he did not really recover his temper until he had mounted
Cora, found all the straps of her skirt, adjusted her stirrup, loosened
the curb for her, and finally swung himself up on his own hunter, a big
ugly chestnut.

The meet was near-by and they were going to jog quietly over to it. They
took a short cut across the lawn, and at the sight of the turf, at the
smell of the fresh clear morning, the horses began to dance as
spontaneously as children will at the sound of a street organ. Crane and
Cora glanced at each other and laughed at this exhibition of high
spirits on the part of their darlings.

No horseman is proof against the pleasure of seeing one of his treasured
animals well shown by its rider; and the Irish mare had never looked as
well as she now did under Cora's skilful management. He told her so,
praising her hands, her appearance, her understanding of the horse's
mind; and she, very fittingly, replied with flattery of the mare and of
Crane's own remarkable powers of selection.

They were getting on so well that Burton found himself saying earnestly:

"You really must stay on as long as I do, Cora. Don't let your mother
take you away, as she wants to."

The girl's surprise actually checked the mare in her stride.

"My mother is thinking of going away?" she cried.

Well, of course, he wanted her to stay, wanted her, even, to want to
stay, but somehow he did not want her to be so much terrified at the
thought of departure, did not want her black eyes to open upon him with
such manifest horror at the bare idea of departure.

He suggested sending the horses along a little, and they cantered side
by side on the grass at the roadside. Crane kept casting the glances of
a lover, not at Cora, but at the black mare, as she arched her neck to a
light touch on the curb, so that the sunlight ran in iridescent colors
along her crest.

Presently they saw two horsemen ahead of them, one of them in that
weather-stained pink that, to hunting eyes, makes the most beautiful
piece of color imaginable against the autumn fields.

"That's Eliot, the Master," cried Crane. "The hounds must be just ahead.
He's a nice old fellow; let's join him. I can't make out who the other
one is--no one who was out the last time we hunted."