"I never carry home my gun loaded," was Mr. Cleveland's answer. "I have too many young ones to risk it; they are in all parts of the house at once, putting their hands to everything. Neither do I think it fair to carry it into the house of a friend." Oscar Dalrymple drew down the corners of his mouth; it gave an unpleasing expression to his face, which was naturally cold. At that moment a bird rose within range; Oscar raised his piece, fired and brought it down. "That," said he, "is how I like to waste good powder and shot." "All right, Mr. Oscar," was the Rector's hearty answer. "To use it is better than to waste it, but to waste it is better than to run risks. Most of the accidents that happen with guns are caused by want of precaution." "Shall I draw your charge, Mr. Robert?" asked Hardy; who, as a good church-going man, had a reverence for all the Rector said, in the church and out of it. "Draw the charge from _my_ gun!" retorted Hardy's young master; not, however, speaking within ear-shot of Mr. Cleveland. "No. I can take care of my playthings, if others can't, Hardy," he added, with all the self-sufficiency of a young and vain man. Presently there came up a substantial farmer, winding across the stubble towards his own house, which they were passing. He rented under Mr. Dalrymple. "Famous good sport today, hasn't it been, Squire?" cried he, saluting his landlord. "Famous. Never better. Will you accept a pair, Lee?" continued Mr. Dalrymple. "We have bagged plenty." The farmer gladly took the pheasants. "I shall tell my daughters you shot them on purpose, Squire," said he, jestingly. "Do," interposed Robert, with a laugh. "Tell Miss Judith I shot them for her: in return for her sewing up that rent in my coat, the other day, and making me decent to go home. Is the fence, where I fell, mended yet?" "Mended yet?" echoed Mr. Lee. "It was up again in an hour after you left, Mr. Robert." "Ah! I know you are the essence of order and punctuality," returned Robert. "You must let me have the cost." "Time enough for that," said the farmer. "'Twasn't much. Good-afternoon, gentlemen; your servant, Squire." "Oh--I say--Lee," called out Robert, as the farmer was turning homewards, while the rest of the party pursued their way, "about the mud in that weir? Hardy says it will hurt the fish to do it now." "That's just what I told you, Mr. Robert." "Well, then---- But I'll come down tomorrow, and talk it over with you: I can't stop now." "As you please, sir. I shall be somewhere about."