“Oh no, dear. I won't be let off, now I know your wish. Only I beg to ride home as soon as the poor thing runs away. You wouldn't get me out of the thick covers if I were a fox. I'd run round and round, and call on all my acquaintances to set them running.” As she said this her eyes turned toward each other in a peculiar way, and she looked extremely foxy; but the look melted away directly. The hounds met, and Lady Bassett, who was still the beauty of the county, was surrounded by riders at first; but as the hounds began to work, and every now and then a young hound uttered a note, they cantered about, and took up different posts, as experience suggested. At last a fox was found at the other end of the cover, and away galloped the hunters in that direction, all but four persons, Lady Bassett, and her groom, who kept respectfully aloof, and a lady and gentleman who had reined their horses up on a rising ground about a furlong distant. Lady Bassett, thus left alone, happened to look round, and saw the lady level an opera-glass toward her and look through it. As a result of this inspection the lady cantered toward her. She was on a chestnut gelding of great height and bone, and rode him as if they were one, so smoothly did she move in concert with his easy, magnificent strides. When she came near Lady Bassett she made a little sweep and drew up beside her on the grass. There was no mistaking that tall figure and commanding face. It was the brave lady. Her eyes sparkled; her cheek was slightly colored with excitement; she looked healthier and handsomer than ever, and also more feminine, for a reason the sagacious reader may perhaps discern if he attends to the dialogue. _“So,”_ said she, without bowing or any other ceremony, “that little rascal is troubling you again.” Lady Bassett colored and panted, and looked lovingly at her, before she could speak. At last she said, “Yes; and you have come to help us again.” “Well, the lawyer said there was no time to lose; so I have brought you the anonymous letter.” “Oh, thank you, madam, thank you.” “But I'm afraid it will be of no use unless you can prove Mr. Bassett wrote it. It is in a disguised hand.” “But you found him out by means of another letter.” “Yes; but I can't give you that other letter to have it read in a court of law, because--Do you see that gentleman there?” “Yes.” “That is Marsh.” “Oh, is it?” “He is a fool; but I am going to marry him. I have been very ill since I saw you, and poor Marsh nursed me. Talk of women nurses! If ever you are ill in earnest, as I was, write to me, and I'll send you Marsh. Oh, I have no words to tell you his patience, his forbearance, his watchfulness, his tenderness to a sick woman. It is no use--I must marry him; and I could have no letter published that would give him pain.” “Of course not. Oh, madam, do you think I am capable of doing anything that would give you pain, or dear Mr. Marsh either?” “No, no; you are a good woman.”