“Nothin’,” assented the Major, reluctantly. “Very odd,” observed Mr. Catcheside, who was anxious for a kill. “Never saw nothin’ like it,” asserted Mr. Rintoul, looking again into the pigstye. “She must have doubled back,” suggested Mr. Nettlefold. “Should have met her if she had,” observed old Duffield. “She must be somewhere hereabouts,” observes Mr. Trail, dismounting, and stamping about on foot among the half-trodden straw of the fold-yard. No puss there. “Hard upon the hounds,” observes Mr. Wotherspoon, replenishing his nose with a good charge of snuff. “_Cruel_, indeed,” assented the Major, who never gave them more than entrails. “Never saw a hare better hunted!” exclaimed Captain Nabley, lighting a cigar. “Nor I,” assented fat Mr. Nettleford, mopping his brow. “How long was it?” asked Mr. Rintoul. “An hour and five minutes,” replied the Major, looking at his watch (five-and-forty minutes in reality). “V-a-a-ry good running,” elaborates old dandy Wortherspoon. “I see by the _Post_, that——” “Well, I s’pose we must give her up,” interrupted the Major, who didn’t want to have the contents of his own second-hand copy forestalled. “Pity to leave her,” observes Mr. Trail, returning to his horse. “What can you do?” asked the Major, adding, “it’s no use sitting here.” “None,” assents Captain Nabley, blowing a cloud. At a nod from the Major, Solomon now collects his hounds, and passing through the scattered group, observes with a sort of Wellingtonian touch of his cap, in reply to their condolence, “Yes, sir, but it takes a _slee_ chap, sir, to kill a moor-edge hare, sir!” So the poor Major was foiled of his fur, and when the cows came lowing down from the fell to be milked, kind Mrs. Kidwell opened the door and out popped puss, as fresh and lively as ever; making for her old haunts, where she was again to be found at the end of a week. CHAPTER XXVI. THE PRINGLE CORRESPONDENCE.