The race was over. No one disputed the judge's fiat: "The Axeine by six lengths." Up to the skies went the hats and the shouts of the sturdy yeomen, who "know'd he couldn't be beat," exulting in the success of their favorite. Round winner and loser crowded their friends, congratulating the one, condoling with the other, praising both for their riding. At that moment I do not think any one except myself remarked Isabel Raymond, who sat somewhat apart, her tears falling fast under her veil as she looked upon her lost ring. Just then Forrester rode up. "Woe to the vanquished!" he said. "All is lost but honor. Will you say something kind to me after my defeat, Miss Raymond? You will find your pet not punished in the least, and without a scratch on her." Without answering, she held out her hand. As he bent over it, and whispered, what I could not hear, I saw her eyes sparkle, and a happy consciousness flush her cheeks, till they glowed like a sky at sunset when a storm is passing away in the west. Then I knew that he had won a richer prize than ever was set on a race since the first Great Metropolitan was run for at Olympia. Livingstone had washed away the traces of his fall (his wound was only a cut under the hair, above the temple), and was going to get the horses in line to start them for the farmers' cup. As he passed Miss Bellasys he checked his horse for an instant, and said, very coldly, "You are satisfied, I trust?" "All's well that ends well," answered Flora; "but I began to tremble for my bets. I thought you were waiting too long." Guy did not wish to pursue the subject apparently, for he rode on without reply. Flora made no attempt to detain him. She had studied the signs of the times in his countenance long enough to be weather-wise, and to know that the better part of valor was advisable when the quicksilver had sunk to Stormy. The cup was a great success. Eleven started, and three made a most artistic finish--scarcely a length between first and third. The farmers of the present day ride very differently from their ancestors of fifty years ago, whose highest ambition was to pound along after the slow, sure "currant-jelly dogs." Go down into the Vale of Belvoir; watch one of the duke's tenants handing a five-year old over the Smite, and say if the modern agriculturists might not boast with Tydides, _"hemeis de pateron meg' ameinones euchometh' einai."_ They are getting so erudite, too, that I dare say they would quote it in the original.