Dropping of flag and clatter of bell. There they were in the distance, flying down the regulation. They rise to the ditch, three abreast. Canter again--the water jump. The lump becomes a line. And who's ahead? Can you see? Carnation! Ah, my jewel Carnation! And now the bank. There's a horse down. Thunderbolt! Ah, be damned to the same Thunderbolt! Is that the gray ahead? It is so! Is it Flying Fish is in it? Flying Fish it is, and he running like a hare! 'T is win in a canter he will. They 're coming to the hedge. Ah! what is it, Mister? Flying Fish it is, and he stopping dead. A dead stop he 's made, and the jockey pasting the ribs out of him. Ah, he 's on now, but in the heel of the hunt he is! Carnation wins. Carnation--ah, my sweet wee lady! They passed the post, Flying Fish bringing up the rear with a supercilious arrogance. "Fish!" Margery wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Fish was good." And "There goes my new hat!" she wailed. And who should pass by but Mr. Kelly. Out of his red face peered an inquisitive gray eye. "You didn't?" he said. "I did." "How much?" "Ten pounds." "Ah, well," he decided cruelly; "It'll teach you." And he passed on. "Well, the devil scald you!" she called after him, "and your thick ignorance!" Last race and the end of the day. He swung her lightly to the side-car. Firm elbows, rounded arms, and how light she was, elastic! A woman in a shawl and a battered sailor-hat stood with folded arms and began a street ballad: "Bold Robert Emmet, the darling of Ireland! Bold Robert Emmet, he died with a smile! Farewell, my company-ions both loyal and loving! A hero I 'll die for the Emerald Isle." Margery was grinning above the press of the people, O'Conor turned and dug his hand in his pocket. Threw the woman a large silver coin. "Well, may God keep and preserve you, my fine noble red-headed man! And the sweet lady beside you--may God bless her! And may you live comfortable and die happy, the both of you, and leave behind you a dozen of the finest children." "Drive on! Drive on!" O'Conor implored. "Is it over the heads of the decent people you 'd have me drive, then?" asked the jarvey, in abrupt horror. "And of the twelve may six of them be like yourself, fine and red-headed, and six like herself, sweet and dark. Ah, 't is the fine man you have, my sweet mistress!" O'Conor saw the scarlet of her face against the black hair. Eh, Lord, how beautiful she was! VI The click of the wicket-gate and he was gone, and down the frosty road his firm step was echoing. She stood at the long drawing-room window and listened. Eh, what a moon! And to-night the hare would be out on Three Rock Mountain, and the red fox pad toward the chicken-coops--the rogue of the world! And on the mountain lakes southward there would be a lid of mist hovering, blue mist and dark mountains and the white moon!