of the season on Matching’s matchless Green.

The master is already to the fore, and now comes Tom Cuffe, the huntsman, followed by his hounds, whose sleek skins and bright coats show that they are “fit to go,” and whose eager looks bode ill to the long-tailed denizens of copse and covert.

It still wants a few minutes to eleven, and the interval is occupied in the interchange of greetings between old companions of the chase, in desultory talk about horses and hounds; and while some of the older votaries of Diana fight their battles o’er again, and describe thrice-told historic runs, which grow longer with every repetition, others discuss the prospects of the coming season, and indulge in hopes of which, let us hope, neither Jack Frost, bad scent, nor accident by flood or field will mar the fruition.

Nearly all are talking, for there is a feeling of camaraderie in the hunting-field which dispenses with the formality of introductions, its frequenters sometimes becoming familiar friends before they have learned each other’s names.

Yet there are exceptions; and one cavalier in particular appears to hold himself aloof, neither speaking to his neighbors nor mixing in the throng. As he does not look like a “sulky swell,” rendered taciturn by an overweening sense of his own importance, he is probably either a new resident in the county or a “stranger from a distance”—which, none whom I ask seems to know. There is something about this man that especially attracts my attention; and not mine alone, for I perceive that he is being curiously regarded by several of my neighbors. His get-up is faultless, and he sits with the easy grace of a practiced horseman an animal of exceptional symmetry and strength. His well-knit figure is slim and almost youthful, and he holds himself as erect on his saddle as a dragoon on parade. But his closely cropped hair is turning gray, and his face that of a man far advanced in the fifties, if not past sixty. And a striking face it is—long and oval, with a straight nose and fine nostrils, a broad forehead, and a firm, resolute mouth. His complexion, though it bears traces of age, is clear, healthy, and deeply bronzed. Save for a heavy gray mustache, he is clean shaved; his dark, keenly observant eyes are overshadowed by black and all but straight brows, terminating in two little tufts, which give his countenance a strange and, as some might think, an almost sardonic expression. Altogether, it strikes me as being the face of a cynical yet not ill-natured or malicious Mephistopheles.

Behind him are two grooms in livery, nearly as well mounted as himself, and, greatly to my surprise, he is presently joined by Jim Rawlings, who last season held the post of first whipper-in.

What manner of man is this who brings out four horses on the same day, and what does he want with them all? Such horses, too! There is not one of them that has not the look of a two hundred-guinea hunter.

I was about to put the question to Keyworth, the hunt secretary, who had just come within speaking distance, and was likely to know if anybody did, when the master gave the signal for a move, and huntsman and hounds, followed by the entire field, went off at a sharp trot.

We had a rather long ride to covert, but a quick find, a fox being viewed away almost as soon as the hounds began to draw. It was a fast thing while it lasted, but, unfortunately, it did not last long; for, after a twenty minutes’ gallop, the hounds threw up their heads, and cast as Cuffe might, he was unable to recover the line.

The country we had gone over was difficult and dangerous, full of blind fences and yawning ditches, deep enough and wide enough to swallow up any horse and his rider who might fail to clear them. Fortunately, however, I escaped disaster, and for the greater part of the run I was close to the gentleman with the Mephistophelian face and Tom Rawlings, who acted as his pilot. Tom rode well, of course—it was his business—but no better than his master, whose horse, besides being a big jumper, was as clever as a cat, flying the ditches like a bird, and clearing the blindest fences without making a single mistake.

After the first run we drew two coverts blank, but eventually found a second fox, which gave us a slow hunting run of about an hour, interrupted by several checks, and saved his brush by taking refuge in an unstopped earth.

By this time it was nearly three o’clock, and being a long way from home, and thinking no more good would be done, I deemed it expedient to leave off. I went away as Mephistopheles and his man were mounting their second horses, which had just been brought up by the two grooms in livery.

My way lay by Matching Green, and as I stopped at the village inn to refresh my horse with a pail of gruel and myself with a glass of ale, who should come up but old Tawney, Tom Cuffe’s second horseman! Besides being an adept at his calling, familiar with every cross-road and almost every field in the county, he knew nearly as well as a hunted fox himself which way the creature meant to run. Tawney was a great gossip, and quite a mine of curious information about things equine and human—especially about things equine. Here was a chance not to be neglected of learning something about Mephistopheles; so after warming Tawney’s heart and opening his lips with a glass of hot whiskey punch, I began:

“You’ve got a new first whip, I see.”

“Yes, sir, name of Cobbe—Paul Cobbe. He comes from the Berkshire country, he do, sir.”

“But how is it that Rawlings has left? and who is that gentleman he was with to-day?”

“What! haven’t you heard!” exclaimed Tawney, as surprised at my ignorance as if I had asked him the name of the reigning sovereign.

“I have not heard, which, seeing that I spent the greater part of the summer at sea and returned only the other day, is perhaps not greatly to be wondered at.”

“Well, the gentleman as Rawlings has gone to and as he was with to-day is Mr. Fortescue; him as has taken Kingscote.”

Kingscote was a country-house of no extraordinary size, but with so large a park and gardens, conservatories and stables so extensive as to render its keeping up very costly; and the owner or mortgagee, I know not which, had for several years been vainly trying to let it at a nominal rent.

“He must be rich, then. Kingscote will want a lot of keeping up.”

“Rich is not the word, sir. He has more money than he knows what to do with. Why, he has twenty horses now, and is building loose-boxes for ten more, and he won’t look at one under a hundred pounds. Rawlings has got a fine place, he has that.”

“I am surprised he should have left the kennels, though. He loses his chance of ever becoming huntsman.”

“He is as good as that now, sir. He had a present of fifty pounds to start with, gets as many shillings a week and all found, and has the entire management of the stables, and with a gentleman like Mr. Fortescue there’ll be some nice pickings.”

“Very likely. But why does Mr. Fortescue want a pilot? He rides well, and his horses seem to know their business.”

“He won’t have any as doesn’t. Yes, he rides uncommon well for an aged man, does Mr. Fortescue. I suppose he wants somebody to show him the way and keep him from getting ridden over. It isn’t nice to get ridden over when you’re getting into years.”

“It isn’t nice whether you are getting into years or not. But you cannot call Mr. Fortescue an old man.”

“You cannot call him a young ’un. He has a good many gray hairs, and them puckers under his eyes hasn’t come in a day. But he has a young heart, I will say that for him. Did you see how he did that ‘double’ as pounded half the field?”

“Yes, it was a very sporting jump. But who is Mr. Fortescue, and where does he come from?”

“That is what nobody seems to know. Mr. Keyworth—he was at the kennels only yesterday—asked me the very same