esbia felt a
little moved at the thought of losing Mr. Hammond. Maulevrier would come
back to Mary, but John Hammond was hardly likely to return. Their
parting would be for ever.

'You needn't sit quite in my pocket, Molly,' said Maulevrier to his
younger sister.

'I like to make the most of you, now you are going away,' sighed Mary.
'Oh, dear, how dull we shall all be when you are gone.'

'Not a bit of it! You will have some fox-hunting, perhaps, before the
snow is on the hills.'

At the very mention of fox-hounds Lady Mary's bright young face
crimsoned, and Maulevrier began to laugh in a provoking way, with
side-long glances at his younger sister.

'Did you ever hear of Molly's fox-hunting, by-the-by, Hammond?' he
asked.

Mary tried to put her hand before his lips, but it was useless.

'Why shouldn't I tell?' he exclaimed. 'It was quite a heroic adventure.
You must know our fox-hunting here is rather a peculiar
institution,--very good in its way, but strictly local. No horse could
live among our hills, so we hunt on foot, and as the pace is good, and
the work hard, nobody who starts with the hounds is likely to be in at
the death, except the huntsmen. We are all mad for the sport, and off we
go, over the hills and far away, picking up a fresh field as we go. The
ploughman leaves his plough, and the shepherd leaves his flock, and the
farmer leaves his thrashing, to follow us; in every field we cross we
get fresh blood, while those who join us at the start fall off by
degrees. Well, it happened one day late in October, when there were long
ridges of snow on Helvellyn, and patches of white on Fairfield, Mistress
Mary here must needs take her bamboo staff and start for the Striding
Edge. It was just the day upon which she might have met her death easily
on that perilous point, but happily something occurred to divert her
juvenile fancy, for scarcely had she got to the bottom of Dolly Waggon
Pike--you know Dolly----'

'Intimately,' said Hammond, with a nod.

'Scarcely had she neared the base of Dolly Waggon when she heard the
huntsman's horn and the hounds at full cry, streaming along towards
Dunmail Raise. Off flew Molly, all among the butcher boys, and farmers'
men, and rosy-cheeked squireens of the district--racing over the rugged
fields--clambering over the low stone walls--up hill, down
hill--shouting when the others shouted--never losing sight of the waving
sterns--winding and doubling, and still going up