MORAL.

UNCLE JOHN'S NEW HORSE.

A letter I found on my table, addressed to Edward Milford, Esq., Duke Street, St. James's, which, being my name and address, I took the liberty of opening, reminded me of the fact that I was engaged to my uncle for the Christmas holidays.

It ran as follows:

"The Grange, Slopton.

"My Boy,

"You are booked to us for Christmas, so don't fail. It is to be ten days this time, and no telegram 'on important business' to call you away, as, if I remember right, was the case on your last visit. There are many attractions here, or will be by the time you arrive. First, myself; secondly, a new horse, which you will have the pleasure of trying for me; and, thirdly, your cousin Grace. There are a few pheasants, and, besides, some of the old port. You will find a hearty welcome from your affectionate

"Uncle John."

Uncle John (whose surname was Dawson) was the sole surviving relation from whom I had any expectations. He was my mother's brother, and on the death of both my parents had been left my guardian. He had never married; but about the same time that he undertook to train me in the path in which I should go, he had adopted the orphan child of his brother, and it was almost an understood thing that his property would, at his demise, be equally divided between myself and Grace Dawson, the lady referred to in his letter as cousin Grace.

A thorough sportsman of the old school, whose creed lay in horse, hound, and hospitality, he made The Grange as pleasant a place to stop at as one could well find. But there was (as there is in every enjoyment) one drawback—to me at least—and that lay in the "new horse."

My worthy uncle, excellent rider as he was, happened to be the worst judge of a horse in the world, and was always picking up wonderful bargains which, unfortunately, he insisted on my trying for him. How it is that I have hitherto escaped with an unbroken neck I cannot say; for there is scarcely any circus-rider in the United Kingdom who dare lay claim to more double somersaults, and I might almost say that I am an expert at flying in all its branches.

However, nothing venture nothing have; and I was not going to quarrel with Uncle John through any fear of Uncle John's new horse, besides the attraction of cousin Grace. So I sent an answer accepting the invitation, and giving the train by which I should arrive.

It was a cold cheerless afternoon when, having wrapped myself up in my railway-rug, I selected a regalia reina and proceeded to settle myself in the space allotted to me by a magnanimous railway company in a smoking carriage attached to the 3.50 P.M. to Slopton.

There are three things that, when travelling, invariably strike me as peculiar; and which I am forced to put down either to the perversity of human nature or the desire not to give too much comfort for the money.

First: Why is it that the examination of tickets never takes place until nearly the last moment, when one is well wrapped up and settled—the finding of the required piece of cardboard entailing an undoing of the whole arrangement, a search through an infinity of pockets, a loss of temper, a letting in of much cold air, and, to wind up, the almost positive certainty that, having worked oneself into a fever because the blessed article is not forthcoming, one suddenly remembers that, with a chuckle at one's own 'cuteness and in order not to be disturbed, it had been slipped into the band of one's hat, where it had been staring an idiotic examiner in the face for fully five minutes, he pretending all the while not to have seen it?

Secondly: Why, just as you have recovered from the effects of the official visit and have rearranged yourself with, perhaps, your feet on the opposite cushion, if the door opens and another passenger gets in, should he be certain to choose the very seat where you have deposited your legs, notwithstanding that there may be three or four other vacant places, and that by sitting opposite he inflicts the maximum of discomfort on both?

Thirdly: Why is it that the carriages are built with a projection, whereupon you are supposed to recline your head if disposed to sleep, but to effect which purpose you must perforce sit bolt upright, the said projection invariably being, for ordinary mortals, some four inches too high?

And why, if either you yourself or your next-door neighbour, neglect to assume the rigid and perpendicular position necessary, but venture to fall asleep in a more comfortable posture, should it be very long odds that you find yourself reposing peacefully on his shirt-front, or vice-versa?

Before I had arrived at any solution of these phenomena, the train ran into Crosby Junction, and, together with a foot-warmer—which, so far as I could make out, was filled with cold water—there entered a portly individual, whose vocation was plainly stamped on his garments—to wit, a horse-dealer.

After the lapse of a few minutes, during which time the portly one kept the door open, he was joined by another member of the fraternity, who, from the likeness between them, was evidently his son. After we had started again, the father began the conversation by saying to his son: "Jim, I wonder how the old gent likes his horse," at which the youth allowed a smile to steal over his face, and remarked sententiously: "Lucky you got the money down, dad."

Who, I wondered, was the old gent? Somebody else's "Uncle John" perhaps, I thought, and began to reflect on the possibility of his having a nephew to risk his neck over doubtful purchases. I felt a curiosity on the subject, as I knew most of the inhabitants of the country we were approaching, and made up my mind to try and find out.

So turning to the elder I said: "I see, sir" (it is always "Sir" in a first-class, "Mister" in a second, and "Mayster" in a third, I have noticed), "that you know something about horses, and, being a stranger in this country, I should be extremely glad if you could tell me where I am likely to pick up a couple or three at a reasonable price. I have a commission to buy three hunters for a friend in London, and am going down to a place called The Grange, to look at one belonging to a Mr.—Dawson I think is the name; but I should be glad to hear of two others. By-the-way, do you know what sort of cattle Mr. Dawson keeps?"

As I concluded my speech, which I thought decidedly artful, I saw father and son exchange significant glances, and then my portly friend replied:

"Well, sir, you've come to the right shop for what you want. I have three of the very best you ever clapped your eyes on. If you will favour me with a call to-morrow or the next day we might do business. Though I must tell you that I am a one-price man, and keep none but the best. Perhaps, sir, you would take my card," and he presented for my inspection a highly-glazed piece of pasteboard, whereon was imprinted

When he saw that I had digested the contents and had transferred the card to my pocket, he continued in a more confidential tone: "I'll give you a little bit of advice, sir. Don't be too sweet on Mr. Dawson's horse; I know he has one for sale which he bought up in town, a rare good 'un to look at, but a regular beast. If he takes it into his head he will do nothing but stand still and kick, and if he can't shift you at that he'll lie down and roll. Poor old gentleman, he was awful took in over it! He should have come to me. You can't mistake the 'oss, it's a big upstanding bay with a white stocking on the near fore. But here's Muxford, so I'll wish you good-day, and 'opes to see you to-morrow or the next day. If I ain't at home my son here will show you the nags;" and he got down.

Just before the train moved on again, however, he came to the window and said, "Don't you buy the bay 'oss on no account."

It was not hard to put, in this instance, two and two together, and when we arrived at Slopton I had quite made up my mind where the "new horse" had been bought. On getting out of the train I was nearly deposited under the wheels by a vigorous slap, administered in the centre of my back, coupled with the remark: "Why, my lad, you look like a Polar bear in that ulster. It isn't cold. How are you?"

Having recovered my equilibrium, I turned round and encountered the jovial face of Uncle John, whose nose, however, belied his speech anent the weather, for it was glistening red, like the sun through a London fog.

"I'm all right, uncle," I replied; "I can see you are. How are they all at The Grange?"

"Fit as fiddles," responded my guardian. "Grace is outside in the carriage, so get your traps together and let's be off. By-the-bye, I have such a grand new horse for you to try. You shall ride him on Tuesday, when the hounds meet at Abbot's Hill. A big upstanding bay; such a beauty! Got him dirt cheap; but there, I'll tell you all about him when we get home."

"Has he got a white stocking on the near fore?" I asked.

"Yes; how the deuce did you know, I wonder?" queried my uncle. "But look sharp with those things: you take as long collecting your traps as a fox does to leave a big wood."

"Alas, poor me!" I thought. "It is Mr. Bell's horse;" and I went out to see cousin Grace with anything but a feeling of "pleasures to come." The sight of her dear face and the warmth of her greeting, however, soon made me forget all about the white stocking, and the journey home was passed in questions asked and answers given. She told me that on the morrow the remainder of the party were expected down, among them old Lady Ventnor and her son Lord Ventnor, a young gentleman who gave himself considerable airs on the strength of his title, and for whom I had an intense dislike, owing perhaps in a great measure to an idea that he had designs on Grace's affections, which, although I had never hinted a word of love to her, caused me more uneasiness than I liked to say.

As a set-off against this (to me) obnoxious element, my old school-fellow and almost brother, Jack Fisher, was already in the house, together with his sister, who was A1 whether across country or in a ball-room, and the life and soul of any house she might be staying in.

Old "young ladies" no doubt used to shake their heads and say, in their jealousy, that she was "so fast;" but a better girl, in every sense of the word, than Lettie Fisher did not exist, despite her boisterous spirits and reckless daring.

Naturally when we arrived at The Grange Jack and I had lots to talk over—old days, old sayings, and old friends; and in the smoking-room, when Uncle John, seated in his favourite armchair, with a long churchwarden, fast colouring from constant usage, in his hand, endeavoured to inflict on us a detailed description of the big upstanding bay, we simply refused to listen to him, and I told him I would prefer to form my judgment from actual experience.

Next day the rest of the guests arrived, and I had the pleasure of seeing young Ventnor doing his little best to ingratiate himself with my cousin. I am afraid that my manner showed that something was wrong, for after dinner in the drawing-room Grace, having for a moment freed herself from his lordship's attentions, came across to where I was sitting moodily contemplating the piano, and said:

"What is the matter, Ned? You look as cross as two sticks. Everyone will think you have committed a murder if you go on staring into vacancy. Ventnor says you would make a beautiful Hamlet."

"Very likely," I retorted. "I was just then thinking with the Prince of Denmark that some of Nature's journeymen had made men, and not made them well, they imitated humanity so abominably. Tell Ventnor I am highly flattered by his opinion of me as a representative of the Dane."

Grace only raised her eyebrows and left me to my thoughts, which were interrupted by the arrival of the butler, who informed Uncle John that the stud-groom was waiting for orders about the morrow.

My Uncle, who had gone to sleep over his paper and was still in the land of dreams, astonished us all by saying: "No more, thanks; not a drop more. Excellent claret, but no more, thank you."

However, the roar of laughter thoroughly awoke him, and he proceeded to tell us off to our respective mounts. Of course it fell to my lot to ride the "new horse." Ventnor had brought his nags with him. Jack and his sister were to ride The Drake and Topthorn, two of the best hunters in the country, while Grace had her own mare Kitty, Uncle John reserving to himself his favourite animal Corkscrew, so called from his ability to bore through any bullfinch in the world.

Having arranged these matters, candles were lighted and we all retired—the ladies to bed and the men to the land of tobacco and long tumblers.

"Are you nearly ready, Ned? It's a a lovely day," said Jack, as he rushed into my room on the following morning to borrow a razor (Jack had a way of borrowing razors, and a most inconvenient habit of forgetting to return them). "Tell you what it is, if I were you I should take plenty of sticking-plaster in my pocket, and, if you have any, a bandage or two, for James (the footman) has been gratifying me with an account of your mount for to-day. He says no one can ride the beast if it takes it into its head to be obstinate, and that it has nearly reduced one of the helpers to a wafer by going down with him at exercise and rolling over with him."

"Well," I replied, "you are a nice sort of Job's comforter. Here, drop it," as Jack seized my razor. "Do, for goodness' sake, go and get one of Ventnor's."

But he turned a deaf ear, and, making good his retreat, left me to struggle into my boots, and reflect on the pleasures of the chase before me.

When I arrived downstairs I found everyone assembled at breakfast in full hunting fig, and Uncle John sticking up for his new purchase, utterly refusing to believe Jack's history of the brute's manners.

"Ah Ned," said he, as I entered the room, "they are all trying to put me out of conceit with my nag, but you will show them a different story; even if he is a little awkward—which, mind you, boy, I don't believe—he will find his master to-day, eh?"

"Ladies and gentlemen," said the incorrigible Jack, rising, "I venture to propose a toast, with which I am sure you will all agree—ahem! The toast is that of my esteemed friend Mr. Edward Milford, who is about to be created Master of the Rolls."

Shouts of laughter greeted this sally from all except Grace, who remarked: "I think it is a great shame to chaff my cousin, and if there is any accident you will all be sorry."

I thanked the dear girl by a look, and turned my attention to pigeon-pie, ignoring Ventnor's question as to "Whether I did not feel too nervous to eat?"

Ten o'clock saw us under weigh, and strangely enough the big upstanding bay was on his best behaviour, and walked along by the side of Kitty most sedately—a circumstance which Ventnor, who hoped to monopolise Grace, did not seem particularly thankful for.

Arriving at the meet in good time, I found myself in the midst of a host of old friends, who admired my horse, and said he looked all over like going. The first draw from Abbots Hill was a cover called "The Rough," and it was noted for being a very nasty one to get a start from, as there were only two ways to choose, either through a boggy hunting gateway at the corner, which was always kept closed until the fox was away, or over a rasping great fence, with a ditch fully ten feet broad on the far side, which was, to say the least of it, not an inviting object to commence with.

Knowing the topography of the land, I slipped down to the gate as the hounds were thrown in, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing a fine old fox steal away and make across the long grass-field on the other side of "The Rough." Giving him a few moments to make good his departure, I holloed, and down came the whole field pounding away for the gate.

Directly my uncle's steed heard them coming he began his tricks by shooting up straight on end. A crack between the ears with my crop, and a gentle reminder of both spurs as he came down fully roused his temper, and, placing himself across the gateway, he started to kick in a way I should never have believed possible. With his head (notwithstanding all I could do) nearly touching the ground, he pirouetted round in a circle, lashing out viciously the whole time, and rendering it perfectly impossible for anyone to pass.

A few adventurous spirits charged the fence, but the majority of the field were kept back, and seeing that hounds were running hard with a burning scent, blessings (or the reverse) fell fast and thick on my devoted head.

At last, after I had thrashed him till my arm ached, and tried everything I could think of to induce him to shift his ground, the brute played his trump card, and down he went as if he had been shot, rolling over into the ditch, where he lay, and sending me flying well into the middle of the boggiest place, but fortunately clear of himself, so that I escaped without personal injury.

Covered with mud, and my hat squashed flat, I presented a pretty picture as I picked myself up and scrambled out of the way to allow the more fortunate sportsmen a means of egress, which they were not slow to take advantage of.

Grace, riding through, pulled up on the other side, and asked me, with some concern, if I was hurt.

"Not a bit," I said; "go on, I am all right, only take care of yourself."

"Don't get on that brute's back again, dear boy," shouted Uncle John. "It has frightened me out of my life. I thought you were going to be killed."

"Never mind me, Uncle, you will lose the hounds if you wait here; get for'ard and see after Grace; I will get this beast home," I replied; and, beckoning to two labourers who were standing gazing at the prostrate form of the "upstanding" one, I sent for a cart-horse and ropes, and we soon had him out of the ditch and standing, thoroughly subdued, in the field.

The saddletree I found smashed, and the stirrup-iron crumpled up, so there was no use in trying to go on. The horse was not damaged, luckily, with the exception of some hair off; but I had to lead the brute four miles home, and had had quite enough of it by the time I reached The Grange.

"Good Lord, sir, you are in a mess!" remarked the stud-groom; "I was afraid there would be summat happen. He is a nasty one; why, I rode him myself the other mornin' into the village, and he played me the very identical caper, just before you come to the bridge. He wouldn't pass that there duck-pond by the pub., and when he went down, as near as a toucher put me into the water. The lads do tell me as nothing will make him go by there now. Ah, master should a listened to me, and not go a-buying nags from a pair of copers like them Bells of Muxford."

"Oh," I said, "he came from Bell's, did he? I thought so;" and I recounted my conversation in the train.

When the rest returned of course they had had a capital day, and I (as is usual in these cases) had to stand the brunt of many condolences and much sympathy with my bad luck. I bore it for some time, but a climax came at dinner. Everybody, Uncle John included, had been vilifying the new purchase, when young Ventnor broke in with affected drawl, saying: "Ah, yes, but a fellah, you know, should not ride such a horse unless he knows how to prevent him rolling. It ain't safe—ah—you know."

Grace flew up in arms in a moment, and, with her eyes flashing with anger, said: "I do not believe, Lord Ventnor, that you or any man could have prevented the horse rolling. My cousin Ned can ride as well as most men, and" (here came the unkindest cut of all) "anyhow I do not think he would have turned away from Cleasby brook."

Then, catching my eye, she stopped short, and blushing crimson betrayed her secret, for I knew in that moment that she cared for me, and that I had nothing to fear from fifty Ventnors.

Uncle John, seeing how the land lay, said: "Well, Ventnor, if you are so confident that my nephew ought to have done better you shall have a chance of showing him how, for you shall ride the horse to-morrow if you like."

Ventnor was about to reply, when Grace gave the signal for the ladies to retire, and as soon as they had gone and we had drawn round the fire, Jack turned to his lordship and spoke up as follows:

"If you ride the bay to-morrow, I'll bet you ten sovereigns he puts you down."

"Oh yes, I'll—ah—ride him, and take your bet, Fisher," replied Ventnor.

"I'll do more than that," said I; "I'll lay you fifty pounds to thirty that you do not ride from this door to the village and back in half an hour; it's under a mile, so you have ample time."

"Ah—done," quoth the young gentleman; and the bets were promptly booked, the time being fixed for the start at 10 A.M.

Next morning everybody, from my Uncle down to the boy who cleaned the knives, turned out to see Lord Ventnor give me a lesson in riding. Jack, Lettie, and Grace I had let into the secret of the duck-pond, and thither we repaired to see the fun. In a few moments along the road came Ventnor with a sort of I-told-you-how-it-would-be smile on his face.

A snort—a full stop—down went the bay's head, and up went his heels.

"Mind he doesn't roll with you, or it will cost you forty pounds," shouted Jack, and "Look out, man," as the animal's forelegs began to tremble.

Nearer and nearer the pond they got, when all of a sudden down dropped the new horse, Ventnor jumping off as he fell; but unfortunately for himself he caught his near spur in the saddle as the animal turned over, and with an "Oh!" from the two girls, we saw him disappear head first into the pond, while the "white stocking" made tracks homeward as hard as he could go.

"My dear sir," said Jack, as we pulled the dripping lord out of the pond, "a fellah, you know, should not ride unless he knows how to prevent a horse rolling; it isn't safe, you know."

This was too much for both Grace and Lettie, and they were forced to retire in order to hide their laughter. Ventnor was so angry that he would not speak, and he paid us our money with a very bad grace the same evening. However, it taught him a lesson that it will take him years to forget.

I told Uncle John after this of my meeting in the train with the Messrs. Bell, and he decided at once to send the brute up to Aldridge's, where the fine upstanding bay fetched exactly twenty-five guineas, and was dear at that.

On Christmas Eve I ventured to ask Grace for a Christmas present, to wit, herself, and as Jack, who was my best man, said at the wedding breakfast: "Though the mount was not a pleasant one, still as it was instrumental in obtaining for me my wife, I had no right to be too hard on Uncle John's New Horse."

THE HOG-BACKED STILE.

CHAPTER I.

COMING EVENTS.

Towards the middle of December, 1878, a dog-cart might have been seen standing outside the small station of Newcome, in Slopshire. There was nothing particularly remarkable about the turn-out—a goodish-looking animal in the shafts and a certain air of neatness stamped it as belonging to a gentleman, but beyond that there was no particular feature to attract attention. No gaudy red wheels, nothing dazzling in the way of "picking out;" simply an ordinary dog-cart, which had come down from Belton Hall to meet the 5.35 train from London.

Belton Hall, an old Elizabethan mansion, belonged to the Vivians, was inhabited by Colonel George Vivian and his daughter Mildred, and they were expecting two visitors, who had been asked to the Hall for Christmas and hunting—one, Jack Vivian, the Colonel's nephew; the other, a Mr. Thomas Simpson, who was known to the world in general to be following that calling which covers a multitude of sins, which means so much yet expresses so little, viz. "something in the City."

Colonel Vivian was as keen a sportsman and as good a man to hounds as there was in Slopshire, and his daughter followed closely in his footsteps—too closely sometimes, for on one occasion, when the Colonel came down at a stiffish stake-and-bound fence, Mildred, unable to stop in time, jumped right on the top of him, her horse's near hind-foot going slap through the crown of his new hat, which luckily did not at the moment contain her father's head.

Belton was therefore a certain find, and the Master, knowing this, always had a fixture there in the Christmas week.

Both Mildred and her father were too apt to gauge a man by his powers of getting over a country, and woe betide any unfortunate individual who had been seen to exhibit any—well, I will say hesitation—when hounds were running. If he happened to be staying at the Hall, he was chaffed most unmercifully, and under any other circumstances he was immediately set down in the mental tablets of the Vivians as a man who was not worth knowing.

There was but little fear of Jack not coming up to the mark in the way of riding, for, born and brought up in the country, his first recollections were associated with hounds, and his earliest lessons comprised "the run of a fox." Of late years he had not been able to hunt as much as he would have liked, for there were two fatal objections in his way—want of time and want of money.

Jack Vivian was a barrister, and a hard-working one withal. He had got his foot on the second rung of the ladder of success and meant going upwards; therefore he had little time for play, and but a small balance of spare cash; so it was only now and again that he could snatch a brief holiday, and, finding neck and spurs against a friend's horse, engage in his favourite pursuit. Notwithstanding this, there were few men who would care to back themselves against Jack across country, and there was probably not one (old Jim the Huntsman excepted) who knew more about a fox or what hounds were doing.

Mr. Simpson, on the other hand, was rolling in wealth, and as his "something in the City" did not occupy much of his time, he tried in every way to assume the appearance of a country gentleman, and to be considered a modern Nimrod.

Somehow, though, his three hundred-guinea hunters did not carry Mr. Simpson to the end, and it was marvellous the extraordinary and unforeseen obstacles that had prevented his appearance at the death.

Rivers suddenly had sprung up where none had been known before, and six-foot posts and rails, with broad double ditches, had caused Mr. Simpson alone to tarry on his course. In other words he was an arrant "funk," though of course he would not have acknowledged the soft impeachment.

It was, as you may think, very odd that such a man should be the guest of so ardent a sportsman as the owner of Belton, but it happened thus. The previous year the Colonel and his daughter were staying in Leicestershire, and at a friend's house they met Mr. Simpson. So taken up with admiring his horses was the Colonel that he either omitted to look at the owner, or else invested him with a halo which was the overflow of the equine worship.

Besides, open house, hunters five days a week for himself and daughter, and a large establishment, were not to be maintained for nothing; and the Colonel, in the matter of £ s. d., was a remarkably practical man, and had no objection to the possibility of a rich son-in-law, even though he might be "in the City."

Therefore, for Christmas week, Simpson and his horses were offered bed and board at Belton; and already, in his own mind, had Mr. S. drawn up a deed of partnership, with Miss Vivian as the Co., for he had been completely knocked out of time at the first sight of Mildred, and had fallen head over ears in—what he was pleased to call—love. What his chances of success were may be gathered from the following conversation, which took place in the drawing-room after the dog-cart had gone down to the station.

Mildred—it was a non-hunting day—was seated in a low easy-chair, occupied with five-o'clock tea, and by her side, on a cushion, reclined her cousin Ethel, a young girl of sixteen, while opposite was the Rev. Mr. Wilton, the clergyman of the place—one of the old school of sporting parsons, who was good for a fast twenty minutes either in the field or the pulpit; and though he had, for fifty odd years, hunted regularly four days a-week, there was not a man, woman, or child in the parish whose every trouble was not known to him, and there was not one of them who would not willingly have given up everything to help their idol, "t' owd parson."

With his back to the fire stood the Colonel, engaged in conversation with Florence Wingfield, sister to the expected Jack. She was staying in the house with her husband, Captain Tom Wingfield, of the 23rd Hussars, who at this moment was trying a new purchase by riding over to the kennels, some ten miles away.

"Which room has Mr. Simpson got, Milly?" said the Colonel suddenly.

"The best bachelor's room, papa," replied the young lady; "I put him there because I thought the gorgeous pattern of the new carpet you chose would suit his taste, and I have hung up some of those old sporting prints for him to take a lesson from."

"And what room has Jack got?" continued the Colonel, not best pleased at the impression his intended guest had produced on his daughter.

"Oh, dear old Jack has, of course, his own room. Florence arranged it just as it used to be, and before tea came I saw the fire was all right."

"I suppose you did not happen to see if Mr. Simpson's fire was all right, Mildred?" said Mr. Wilton, with a sly twinkle in his eye.

"No; Ethel did that," she replied, laughing; "besides, with that red face he can't be cold."

"Milly, never judge by appearances," interrupted Mrs. Wingfield, who saw by her uncle's face that the conversation was not particularly agreeable to him. Woman-like, she had read him like a book; and, though willing to keep the peace, she had long ago made up her mind that Mildred was to be her brother's wife or an old maid—aut Cæsar aut nihil; and having settled this, she set herself down to carry out her plans.

"Who is talking about judging by appearances?" put in a manly voice, as Tom Wingfield, somewhat muddy of coat, walked into the room.

"I was," said his wife. "I was telling Milly not to judge by appearances, for I thought you a nice fellow once, and—ahem!—I was taken in by your appearance."

"All right, Mrs. Impudence," retorted Tom; "no hunting for you. I thought I had two beautiful ladies' hunters, but I was deceived by appearances. Anyhow, let me have a cup of tea. I have given my new nag a lesson he won't forget. He refused that fence out of the road by the windmill, and put me down twice; then tried to bolt for Paradise Hill, but after a fight we got on terms, and he goes like an angel now."

"I must make a note of that, Wingfield," interrupted Mr. Wilton. "It is a curious coincidence of an animal being stopped on its way to Paradise, yet suddenly becoming an angel."

"Capital text for next Sunday, Wilton," said the Colonel. "But hark! I hear the dog-cart, and here they come round the corner of the drive."

"Oh Lord!" ejaculates Tom; "can anyone tell me how gray shirtings are? Must talk to a man who is in the City about shirtings or backwardations, you know. I'll ask Jack what he gave for his flannel shirts."

Amid the shouts of laughter which followed this sally the door opened, and the butler announced: "Mr. Simpson and Master Jack."

CHAPTER II.

OF THE CITY CIVIC.

"Delighted to see you, Mr. Simpson," said the Colonel, taking that gentleman's somewhat flabby hand, and introducing him to the others in turn. "Ah Jack, my boy, how are you? I have such a horse for you; but no spurs allowed, mind."

"All right, uncle," replied Jack, coming to the fire; "I'll remember. But how are you all? Florence, you are getting most abominably fat. Why, Milly, ain't you going to say How do you do to me?—not that way," as Mildred put out her hand. "I ask you, is that the way to welcome your long-lost cousin? Come to my arms"—a proceeding that he promptly tried to put into force, and had he not stumbled head over heels over Ethel, who from her position on the ground he had not noticed, would have succeeded in his endeavour.

As it was, like a drowning man, he clutched at the first thing that came to hand, which, happening to be Simpson's coat-tail, brought that worthy gentleman down with him, and cut short the polite little speech he was about to address to Mildred.

It was rather hard lines on the unfortunate individual, for all the way down in the train he had been (when Jack's eye was not upon him) rehearsing it, and now it was lost for ever.

"I beg your ten thousand pardons, Simpson," said Jack, struggling to his feet. "Why, it's Ethel. What on earth do you go and curl yourself up like a fox-terrier on the hearthrug for, and make people do these pantomime tricks over you? You nearly were the death of two of Her Majesty's most esteemed subjects."

"Heavy fall in shirtings," whispered the irrepressible Tom to Mildred, who was obliged to go out of the room, ostensibly to see the housekeeper, but in reality to hide her laughter.

"Not hurt, I hope?" asked the Colonel.

"No—ah—Colonel Vivian, I thank you; but I must apologise to Miss Vivian. It must have astonished her. Ah, she is gone," said Simpson, who was, if possible, of a more rosy hue than ever.

"Oh, Mildred's all right," put in Jack; "it's not the first time she has seen a man down by many a hundred, nor will it be the last if hounds run to-morrow. Which is my room, uncle? I'll show Simpson his too. It's nearly time to dress."

"You are in your old quarters, Jack, and Mr. Simpson is in the bachelor's room, which, I hope, he will find comfortable," said his uncle.

"Come on then, Simpson; I'll take you to your diggings, and then I'll go and see Phillips the stud-groom, and tell him to show your man where to put himself and his horses too," continued Jack, and out they went.

"What a ridiculous contretemps!" said Florence as the door closed. "I never saw anything half so funny as Mr. Simpson's face. My dear Ethel, I thought I should have died."

"I thought I should have been smothered," replied Ethel. "I shall never be able to look Mr. Simpson in the face again."

Mr. Wilton, who had hitherto been a silent spectator, here interrupted with "I am afraid the gentleman is not in the same happy state as Wingfield's horse, for I distinctly heard him as he fell utter a most unangelic word beginning with a D."

"A falling angel can't be particular," said Tom. "What do you say, Colonel?"

"I say that it's very wrong of you to make fun of our guest, and that if you don't go to dress at once you will be all late for dinner;" with which the master of the house walked out of the room followed by the rest.

At seven o'clock the whole party were reassembled in the drawing-room. Mr. Simpson, in all the consciousness of a spotless shirt in which blazed an elaborate diamond stud the size of a sixpenny piece, was trying to make himself agreeable to Mildred, while Jack was in a deep discussion with Tom and his uncle over the prospects of the season, and listening to the accounts of past performances. "Dinner is served" from the butler took them all into the dining-room, where they were soon hard at what Tom called "trencher-work."

"What horses have you brought, Mr. Simpson?" said the Colonel during the pause after the soup.

"Ah—two, Colonel Vivian. A bay mare I had last season, and a new horse I bought from Ward the other day; a splendid fencer—nothing is too big for him. Ah—I had to give four hundred for him though, so he ought to be good," replied Simpson.

"He ought indeed. I wish I could afford to give such prices," rejoined the Colonel, on whose ear the statement of £ s. d. grated somewhat harshly. "I advise you to ride him to-morrow; the hounds meet here, and the keeper tells me there are a brace of foxes in the osiers, and if they take the usual line it wants a good horse to live with them."

Mr. Simpson's face did not express a vast amount of rapture at this, and he almost wished he had not been quite so fulsome on the subject of his new purchase. However, turning to Mildred, he said: "Miss Vivian—ah—I suppose you follow the hounds to-morrow?"

"Yes," replies Mildred; "I ride my favourite horse Birdcatcher, and I hope we shall show you some sport."

"Follow the hounds!" muttered Jack under his breath, who was getting rather jealous of his fellow-traveller. "He did not suppose the hounds would follow her, did he?" an idea that he imparted to Ethel, who was next to him, and which seemed to amuse her mightily. "I believe the fellow's a funk," he went on. "Anyhow, I'll draw him," and across the table he said: "Simpson, is your nag good at water and timber, for the Belton brook runs below the osiers, and there are one or two rather awkward stiles to be negotiated?"

"Oh yes. Ah—he is a first-rate water-jumper, and, I believe, very good all round."

"That's all right then; you will be cutting us all down," put in Tom; whereat Simpson smiled a sickly and most unbecoming smile, by which he meant to insinuate that he was going to try, and thought it extremely probable that he would succeed, but which conveyed to everybody the impression that he wished Belton brook and the stiles at the bottom of the sea.

Florence, who saw this, immediately proceeded to set his mind at rest by telling a number of stories anent the difficulties of the country, and the number of men that had come out in the morning in all the pride of their scarlet, and had returned bemudded and besmirched after a visit to the bottom of the brook, all of which anecdotes she referred to Mr. Wilton for verification.

After dinner Mr. Simpson made the running very strongly with Mildred, much to Jack's disgust; and as he found that, do what he would, he was unable to get a word in edgeways without having his eyes nearly put out by the glitter of the City gentleman's diamond stud, he took refuge behind the paper, which position, notwithstanding Mildred's glance of entreaty, he maintained resolutely till the appearance of candles and the Colonel's orders for the morning warned everybody that it was bedtime.

"Good-night, Jack, my boy," said his uncle, after the ladies had retired. "I shan't come to the smoking-room to-night. Mind, breakfast at nine sharp. I have ordered a real flyer for you to-morrow, and I want you to keep up your reputation and show them the way, also to give an eye to Milly. I can trust her with most horses, but Birdcatcher is, as you know, an awkward customer if he gets his temper up. Mr. Simpson," turning to his guest, "you will find everything in the smoking-room. Jack and Tom will show you where it is. I am rather tired, and will wish you good-night and good sport to-morrow."

"Tom," said Jack to his brother-in-law, "you take Simpson to the den. I'm off to bed; you will excuse my not coming. I've a bad headache, and I want to look over a case I have in hand which is rather important. Good-night, old man; good-night, Simpson;" and with that he retired, muttering to himself: "How the deuce Uncle George could have invited such a cad down here I can't think."

On arriving in his room he found his sister waiting for him, and she immediately commenced: "Dear old Jack, I knew you would not smoke to-night, for I saw you were put out. You need not be afraid about Milly and Mr. Simpson; she detests him. If Uncle George thinks she will ever marry a man like that he is mistaken."

"What's the odds, Florence," said Jack in a desponding tone; "it is no use denying the fact that I am awfully fond of Milly, but what chance have I, as poor as a church mouse, against a man rolling in wealth? And even if she doesn't marry Simpson, some other rich son of a gun will be after her, and it will break my heart to see her married. By-the-way, how can uncle ever tolerate such a vulgarian as Simpson?"

"'Money makes the mare to go,'" replied his sister; "and I fancy Uncle George has been spending a little too much lately. But cheer up, Jack dear; perhaps our old Indian will die, and leave you a heap of money. Meanwhile, rely on me to keep off all intruders: 'Trespassers will be prosecuted,' and all that sort of thing; spring-guns and the extreme penalty of the law, you know."

"Florence, you are a darling," said Jack, kissing her; "but you can't kill the Nabob, and even a woman's wit can't keep Milly under lock and key till your pauper brother makes enough money to enable him to see papa in the study without feeling that he may be shown out of the door by the butler."

"Si c'est possible c'est fait, si c'est impossible cela ce fera," laughed Florence, as she left her brother to think over what she had said.

The old Indian, Sandford by name, was the great hope of both Jack and his sister. He was their mother's only brother, and though he had been home but once in forty years, an event which occurred some nine years back, he had on that occasion intimated that Jack was to be his heir, and when driven to India by what he called "the cursed climate and infernal fogs" of his native country, he had left a thousand pounds to be used for Jack's advancement in life, and regularly every Christmas a letter arrived from Simla to Jack, enclosing an order on Messrs. Drummond for two hundred pounds, bearing the simple signature "John Sandford."

When his sister had gone Jack threw himself into a chair, and after musing for some time tumbled into bed, and was soon dreaming of Milly, the Nabob, and Simpson, all of whom were trying to catch an animal that occasionally took the shape of Birdcatcher, and as often that of his sister.

CHAPTER III.

FLOOD AND FIELD.

"A southerly wind and a cloudy sky," sung loudly by his bedside, woke Jack on the following morning, and, opening his eyes, he encountered those of Tom Wingfield, who, as soon as he saw that he had effected his purpose—to wit, waking Jack—said: "How's the head, old man? It's a ripping fine morning; tumble up. Here's the shaving-water," as the footman entered the room. "I've called Simpson. By Jove, what a bore that man is! he told me last night exactly how much he had given for everything he possessed. However, Phillips, whom I saw just now, says his four hundred guineas worth looks a nailer, but I doubt if our friend's heart is in the right place."

"Heart be blowed!" growled Jack; "the only heart he knows of is the heart of the City. Clear out, Tom, though; its late, and I shall never be dressed in time for breakfast."

However, he was, and as he entered the dining-room he thought he had never seen Milly look so well as, in her well-fitting and workmanlike habit, she dispensed the honours of the tea.

Simpson was simply gorgeous, and evidently fancied himself considerably, though as the clock marked the hour of ten and the first contingent arrived, his rubicund features went many degrees paler at the thought of Belton brook and his four-hundred-guinea hunter.

Punctual to the minute the hounds arrived, and after a quarter of an hour, during which time refreshment for man and horse was in full swing, the signal to move off was given.

"Mornin', Master Jack," said old Jim the Huntsman, as Jack came out of the stable-yard, his mount bucking like an Australian. "I'm main glad to see you wi' us again; we shall soon find summat to take the play out o' you" (alluding to the horse). "If I mistake not, you mean a-showing 'em what for, and I'm sure I hope you will."

"Jim, you get younger every day. They tell me you are going to be married again and give up hunting; is it true?" was Jack's reply.

"Get along with you; you're no better than you used to be, Master Jack," retorted the old man, who was fast nearing his seventieth year.

At this moment the Colonel rode up, accompanied by Mildred and Mr. Simpson, the latter, it must be confessed, looking far from comfortable. "Jim," said he, "we will draw the osiers first, please, up-wind, and send Williams" (the First Whip) "down to the corner. Mr. Wilton and myself will stop by the gate and view him if he tries back. Mr. Talbot" (the Master) "has gone on to the wood, and wished me to tell you."

"Right, Colonel," replied the Huntsman, lifting his cap; and with a "Coop, coome away!" he trotted off down to the bottom end, the hounds clustering all round his horse.

"This way, Milly," said Jack. "Come on, Simpson and Tom," and the quartet established themselves out of sight at the top end of the osier-bed. Presently old Jim was heard cheering his hounds, and a whimper from old Solomon proclaimed the fox to be at home, as usual.

"Eugh, at him!" cheered Jim, and as the whimper swelled into a chorus a regular traveller slipped out close to Mr. Simpson, and headed straight over the dreaded brook.

"By gad, he's off!" said Jack, and "Gorne awa-a-y!" proclaimed his departure to the expectant field. The hounds tumbled out of covert all of a heap, and plunging into the brook in a body were away on the other side in a trice, with a scent breast high.

"Miss Vivian, for goodness' sake don't attempt the brook," implored Simpson; "I will stop and look after you."

But Mildred, vouchsafing him not so much as a look, caught the impatient Birdcatcher by the head, and with Jack and Tom on either side the trio rattled down at the water, which was negotiated with safety.

"Bravo!" said Jack; "here comes Simpson;" and come he did, for his perfect hunter was not made of the stuff to be left behind if he could help it, and seeing his three companions careering away down the opposite field, he, to use a nautical expression, "took charge," and, before his rider knew what had happened, had landed him safely on the other side of the obstacle.

"Down the lane," said Jack to Mildred as they popped over the fence that led out of the meadow; "it's straight for Boltby big wood. Here you are, Jim," as the Huntsman came up to where the hounds had checked for a moment in the lane; "they made it good as far as this. Hark for'ard! Minstrel has it;" and away they went a cracker, turning sharp to the right into some rolling grass-fields.

By this time Mr. Simpson was beginning to pluck up his courage, and in company with those who had not been so favoured at the start was going fairly well. Ten minutes more brought them to the stiles that had been the subject of discussion at dinner the previous evening, and nasty-looking objects they were. The first was not so bad, but the second was a regular teaser—hog-backed, with a yawning ditch, spanned by a footboard on the far side.

"Steady, Milly," said Tom, as Birdcatcher rushed at No. 1.

"By gad, she'll be down if she goes at that pace," shouted Jack in an agony, his horse, a young 'un, having refused.

At this crisis Mr. Simpson appeared on the scene, the rest of the field preferring the safer course down the lane. Tom managed the hog-back successfully, and was too much occupied with the hounds, now racing a field ahead, to think of Mildred, who had evidently got as much as she could manage in the thoroughly-roused Birdcatcher.

Jack's feelings can be better imagined than described as he saw Milly rush at the stile and Birdcatcher turn a complete somersault, sending his mistress flying, happily, some yards away from where he fell.

"Come up, you brute," he yelled, driving his spurs home and fairly lifting the astonished young 'un over both fences. Scarcely had he landed over the hog-back than he was off his horse and kneeling by Milly in a paroxysm of grief.

"My darling child, are you hurt? My God, she's dead!" he cried, as he tried to lift her.

But she was only stunned for the moment, and to his ineffable joy Milly opened her eyes and said: "It's all right, Jack; I'm not hurt. Catch my horse and let's get on."

The "Thank God" came from the bottom of his heart as he caught the two nags and lifted her on; but the agonised expression on his face told Mildred plainer than any words the "old old tale," and in her inmost heart she blessed the fall for the revelation.

The fox meanwhile, who had been headed by a labourer, turned short back, and as they came round, about two fields above the spot where the accident took place, everyone was much amused at the sight of Mr. Simpson, who, unable to muster up courage to ride at the place, and thinking that no one was likely to see him, had got off his horse, and having promised a yokel a sovereign to catch him on the other side, was doing his best, with the aid of his hunting-whip, to induce his four hundred guineas' worth to take it by himself. No further mishap occurred, and in half an hour, after running hard all the time, they viewed and killed their fox in the open, Mr. Simpson arriving just as the last morsel disappeared down old Solomon's throat.

By this time Mildred was feeling the effects of her fall, and Simpson was only too glad to offer to be her escort home; an opportunity which he took advantage of to propose in due form, the effect of his solicitations being somewhat marred by the aversion his horse displayed to walking.

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Simpson," said Mildred, in reply to his entreaties that she would consent to be the "Co.," "I'm very sorry, but it can never be."

"There's some other fellow in the case; I will know who. It's that horrid cousin of yours," said the man of money with his innate vulgarity, for he could not understand any girl refusing his gold.

"Mr. Simpson, you have no right to speak to me like that; and seeing that my cousin picked me up when I fell, while you were too much alarmed for your own safety, I have no reason to consider him horrid," was Mildred's cutting reply, after which she refused to speak till they arrived at the Hall.

Whether it was the rebuff that he had received, or joy at finding himself safe, I cannot say, but at dinner Simpson drank more than was his custom, and was proportionately talkative and bombastic in consequence, and towards the end he entertained the company with a description of how he got over the most enormous places.

"You—ah—see, my horse" (he called it "'orse"' now that the wine was in) "refused that stile where Miss Vivian fell, and Mr. Ward told me it was no use riding him at the same thing twice, so I had to look out—ah—for another place. I saw there was nothing for it but the fence at the side" (it was an overgrown blackthorn, with a six-feet post and rails run through the middle), "and—ah—by Jove! my horse cleared it without touching a twig—ah."

"My word, Simpson, that was a jump—almost as big as the cow took when it vaulted over the moon," said Tom.

"Fact, sir, 'shure you," replied he of the City, when the butler came up behind his chair and in an audible voice said: "I beg pardon, sir, but there's a man downstairs who says you told him to call—says you promised him a sovereign for catching your horse when you turned it over the stile."

It may have been rude, but the guilty look of Simpson and the utter ludicrousness of the whole affair was too much, and everybody, including the Colonel, fairly shrieked with laughter, during which Mr. Simpson bowed himself out to see about this "tale of the sovereign," as he called it.

Later on the butler appeared a second time, bearing in his hand a yellow envelope, which he handed to Jack.

Opening it carelessly he read: "As agents to John Sandford, acquaint you of his death. Yourself left sole heir. Telegraph instructions. Money and securities, eighty thousand. Three large tea estates, besides other property. Letter follows.—Kirkman and Co., Calcutta."

I am afraid Jack's face did not express great sorrow for his deceased uncle. Indeed, as he glanced across at Milly, a great look of joy came into his eyes, and after dinner he found an opportunity to ask her a question, receiving a very different answer to that vouchsafed to Mr. Simpson.

Christmas morning he interviewed "papa in the study" without fear of the butler, and that evening the Colonel, with tears in his eyes, made a long speech, wherein he gave his daughter to his favourite nephew, with solemn injunctions to take care of her.

Jack, in returning thanks, said he would do his best to see that she did not break her neck; he had already had a turn he should never forget; but as it was somewhat instrumental in helping him to gain Milly, he begged to propose the health of The Hog-backed Stile.

Simpson, when he saw the game was lost, turned out a much better fellow than anyone gave him credit for, and Milly found on her table a pearl necklace and a card, on which was written: "With T. Simpson's best wishes and apologies for rudeness."

Now, whenever he meets Jack and his wife, he tells them that the lesson he got at Belton taught him that money and bluster were not everything in this merry world of ours.

THE END.

CHARLES DICKENS AND EVANS, CRYSTAL PALACE PRESS.