erson is a little astray at first."

"I shall be so much astray," said Lizzie. "I don't at all know how we
are going to begin. Are we hunting a fox now?" At this moment they
were trotting across a field or two, through a run of gates up to the
first covert.

"Not quite yet. The hounds haven't been put in yet. You see that wood
there? I suppose they'll draw that."

"What is drawing, Lord George? I want to know all about it, and I am
so ignorant. Nobody else will tell me." Then Lord George gave his
lesson, and explained the theory and system of fox-hunting. "We're to
wait here, then, till the fox runs away? But it's ever so large, and
if he runs away, and nobody sees him? I hope he will, because it will
be nice to go on easily."

"A great many people hope that, and a great many think it nice to go
on easily. Only you must not confess to it." Then he went on with
his lecture, and explained the meaning of scent, was great on the
difficulty of getting away, described the iniquity of heading the
fox, spoke of up wind and down wind, got as far as the trouble of
"carrying," and told her that a good ear was everything in a big
wood,--when there came upon them the thrice-repeated note of an
old hound's voice, and the quick scampering, and low, timid,
anxious, trustful whinnying of a dozen comrade younger hounds, who
recognised the sagacity of their well-known and highly-appreciated
elder,--"That's a fox," said Lord George.

"What shall I do now?" said Lizzie, all in a twitter.

"Sit just where you are and light a cigar, if you're given to
smoking."

"Pray don't joke with me. You know I want to do it properly."

"And therefore you must sit just where you are, and not gallop about.
There's a matter of a hundred and twenty acres here, I should say,
and a fox doesn't always choose to be evicted at the first notice.
It's a chance whether he goes at all from a wood like this. I like
woods myself, because, as you say, we can take it easy; but if you
want to ride, you should-- By George, they've killed him!"

"Killed the fox?"

"Yes; he's dead. Didn't you hear?"

"And is that a hunt?"

"Well;--as far as it goes, it is."

"Why didn't he run away? What a stupid beast! I don't see so very
much in that. Who killed him? That man that was blowing the horn?"

"The hounds chopped him."

"Chopped him!" Lord George was very patient, and explained to Lizzie,
who was now indignant and disappointed, the misfortune of chopping.
"A