“DEAR MR. OLDFIELD--You may guess what trouble I am in. Sir Charles will soon have to appear in open court, and be talked against by some great orator. That anonymous letter Mr. Bassett wrote me was very base, and is surely some justification of the violent epithets my dear husband, in an unhappy moment of irritation, has applied to him. The brave lady has it. I am sure she will not refuse to send it me. I wish I dare ask her to give it me with her own hand; but I must not, I suppose. Pray tell her how unhappy I am, and perhaps she will favor us with a word of advice as well as the letter. “I remain, yours faithfully, “BELLA BASSETT.” This letter was written at the brave lady; and Mr. Oldfield did what was expected, he sent Miss Somerset a copy of Lady Bassett's letter, and some lines in his own hand, describing Sir Charles's difficulty in a more businesslike way. In due course Miss Somerset wrote him back that she was in the country, hunting, at no very great distance from Huntercombe Hall; she would sent up to town for her desk; the letter would be there, if she had kept it at all. Oldfield groaned at this cool conjecture, and wrote back directly, urging expedition. This produced an effect that he had not anticipated. One morning Lord Harrowdale's foxhounds met at a large covert, about five miles from Huntercombe, and Sir Charles told Lady Bassett she must ride to cover. “Yes, dear. Charles, love, I have no spirit to appear in public. We shall soon have publicity enough.” “That is my reason. I have not done nor said anything I am ashamed of, and you will meet the county on this and on every public occasion.” “I obey,” said Bella. “And look your best.” “I will, dearest.” “And be in good spirits.” “Must I?” “Yes.” “I will try. Oh!--oh!--oh!” “Why, you poor-spirited little goose! Dry your eyes this moment.” “There. Oh!” “And kiss me.” “There. Ah! kissing you is a great comfort.” “It is one you are particularly welcome to. Now run away and put on your habit. I'll have two grooms out; one with a fresh horse for me, and one to look after you.” “Oh, Charles! Pray don't make me hunt.” “No, no. Not so tyrannical as that; hang it all!” “Do you know what I do while you are hunting? I pray all the time that you may not get a fall and be hurt; and I pray God to forgive you and all the gentlemen for your cruelty in galloping with all those dogs after one poor little inoffensive thing, to hunt it and kill it--kill it twice, indeed; once with terror, and then over again with mangling its poor little body.” “This is cheerful,” said Sir Charles, rather ruefully. “We cannot all be angels, like you. It is a glorious excitement. There! you are too good for this world; I'll let you off going.”