the Marchesa's letter and read that description of her lover.
Yes; he was all that; true, brave, tender,--a very hero. But then
he was more than all that,--for he was in truth the very "Angel of
Light."

CHAPTER LVI.

GOBBLEGOOSE WOOD AGAIN.

The Monday was devoted to hunting. I am not at all sure that riding
about the country with a pack of hounds is an amusement specially
compatible with that assured love entertainment which was now within
the reach of Ayala and her Angel. For the rudiments of love-making,
for little endearing attentions, for a few sweet words to be
whispered with shortened breath as one horse gallops beside another,
perhaps for a lengthened half-hour together, amidst the mazes of
a large wood when opportunities are no doubt given for private
conversation, hunting may be very well. But for two persons who are
engaged, with the mutual consent of all their friends, a comfortable
sofa is perhaps preferable. Ayala had heard as yet but very little
of her lover's intentions;--was acquainted only with that one single
intention which he had declared in asking her to be his wife. There
were a thousand things to be told,--the how, the where, and the when.
She knew hitherto the why, and that was all. Nothing could be told
her while she was galloping about a big wood on Croppy's back. "I
am delighted to see you again in these parts, Miss," said Larry
Twentyman, suddenly.

"Oh, Mr. Twentyman; how is the baby?"

"The baby is quite well, Miss. His mamma has been out ever so many
times."

"I ought to have asked for her first. Does baby come out too?"

"Not quite. But when the hounds are near mamma comes for an hour or
so. We have had a wonderful season,--quite wonderful. You have heard,
perhaps, of our great run from Dillsborough Wood. We found him there,
close to my place, you know, and run him down in the Brake country
after an hour and forty minutes. There were only five or six of them.
You'd have been one, Miss, to a moral, if you'd have been here on the
pony. I say we never changed our fox."

Ayala was well disposed towards Larry Twentyman, and was quite aware
that, according to the records and established usages of that hunt,
he was a man with whom she might talk safely. But she did not care
about the foxes so much as she had done before. There was nothing
now for which she cared much, except Jonathan Stubbs. He was always
riding near her throughout the day, so that he might be with her
sho