at that there tavern, if such a thing was to be had. The sudden intelligence of Mr Thorpe suggested a way: he could ride off at once to meet Sir Godfrey, and set him at ease; in fact, for himself, at least, it would be easy to avoid the village of Charlemont altogether—by—yes—by taking that _chemin des affronteux_, as they called it. Lady Willoughby’s face brightened. Her thanks to Mr Thorpe were something energetic for _her_: and spurring, rising in his stirrups, bumping up and down on his white mare, that worthy man disappeared. Rose pressed her parasol against her mouth to repress a smile, at the thought how Charles would have enjoyed his following the bear and monkey: but, through _her_ means, she was resolved he should know nothing of it. When least expected, Charles reappeared, jumping with a flushed face over the wall, and carrying a load of wild-flowers for his mother, for Rose, even for Miss Mason. He had heard distant sounds over the woods of the chase, which he thought were those of hunting-horns. But all was again still, bright, sleepy and solitary, under the glory of the sloping sun. He got in; Jackson whipped his horses at last to a trot, for again and again they had been passed each way by humbler vehicles; and they rolled on their way back towards Charlemont. Mr Thorpe’s mission excited no extraordinary satisfaction in Charles, though he was sure they would get on better without him. Mr Thorpe ran a strong chance of being taken up as a spy. All at once it occurred to him that Mr Thorpe had all their passports. But a scene of far more exciting interest next moment eclipsed everything like that. Again, from the distance of those secluded glades, did a sound draw his ear—and it was really the sound of a bugle-horn—a faint, far-off, musical sound, sometimes smothered by the woods, then breaking out clearer. It sank into a long-drawn, almost wailing note, that rose up into a livelier quaver, joined by a burst from others. It must be a hunt. They were blowing the _Mort_—as they did only for a stag, and a stag that was dead. Such luck!—for it came ever nearer. But what a crowd at the turning, near those splendid gates—twenty times even Charlemont must be there, by the swarming noise! And the gates themselves, thrown each way open with their double leaves, closed up the road. The lad rose half up, with breath suspended, and without a look to spare for his party, kept mute as the carriage rolled into the crowd on that side. He did not so much as think what it could be. Though had there been a chance of the _chemin des affronteux_, and the carriage could have gone through it—indeed through one long enough and circuitous enough to avoid all France—it might have been better for the Willoughbies. Yet who knows? The master-history that shapes our ends is wiser than we. CONSERVATIVE REASCENDANCY CONSIDERED.