follow a lean travelling fox from dawn to dark of the short November day, and make as good an account of him at last as of a fat wide-antlered stag under the blazing sun of August. He had some interest, some excitement for every season as it passed. If all his broad acres were not fertile in corn, he owned wide meres covered with wild-fowl, streams in which trout and grayling leaped in the soft May mornings, like rain-drops in a shower, where the otter lurked and vanished, where the noble salmon himself came arrowing up triumphant from the sea. Woods, too, in which the stately red deer found a shelter, and swelling hills of purple heather, where the moorcock pruned his wing, and the curlew’s plaintive wail died off in the surrounding wilderness. All this afforded pleasant pastime, none the less pleasant that his limbs were strong, his health robust, and the happy, hungry sportsman could return at sundown to a comfortable house, an excellent table, and a cellar good enough for the Pope. Such material comforts are not to be despised—least of all by men who have known the want of them. Ask any old campaigner whether he does not appreciate warmth, food, and shelter; even idleness, so long as the effects of previous fatigue remain. These things may pall after a time, but until they _do_ so pall they are delightful, and not to be relinquished but for weighty motives, nor even then without regret. Sir George, too, in taking a wife, had “given pledges to fortune,” as Lord Bacon hath it. He loved Cerise very dearly, and although an elevating affection for a worldly object will never make a man a coward, it tones down all the wild recklessness of his nature, and bids the boldest hesitate ere he risks his earthly treasure even at the call of ambition. It is the sore heart that seeks an anodyne in the excitement of danger and the confusion of tumultuous change. Moreover, men’s habits of thought are acted on far more easily than they will admit, by the opinions of those amongst whom they live. Sir George’s friends and neighbours, the honest country gentlemen with whom he cheered his hounds or killed his game abroad, and drank his claret at home, were enthusiastic Jacobites in theory, but loyal and quiet subjects of King George in practice. They inherited, indeed, much of the high feeling, and many of the chivalrous predilections that had instigated their grandfathers and great-grandfathers to strike desperately for King Charles at Marston Moor and Naseby Field, but they inherited also the sound sense that was often found lurking under the Cavalier’s love-locks, the dogged patriotism, and strong affection for their church, which filled those hearts that beat so stoutly behind laced shirts and buff coats when opposed to Cromwell and his Ironsides.