I SUPPOSE no man sleeps the sounder for a broken collar-bone, even when it is getting well. Determined to be up in time, even if I lay awake for the purpose, I spent what invalids call a _bad_ night. I heard more than one of the small hours strike from a certain loud-ticking clock in the kitchen, that, strangely enough, was never audible in the day. At last, however, I fell into a deep sleep, from which I woke with a start, to hear my servant arranging my dressing-things and pouring cold water into my tub. The morning was as dark as only a hunting morning can be, and a drizzling rain, glazing the chimney-pots and tiles, of which I had a commanding view from my bedroom window, by no means enhanced the temptation of leaving a warm bed. I jumped out, nevertheless, with an effort, shaved, washed, and dressed with considerable energy and rapidity, writhing into my coat in my crippled state, by a series of gymnastics similar to those with which a “navvie” struggles into his fustian jacket. The clock struck nine as I completed my preparations. I had already heard the wheels of a carriage grinding round from the stableyard to the front-door of the inn, whilst a certain bustle in the passages, with much opening and banging of doors, denoted an arrival or a departure. There was no time to lose, if I would waylay Miss Merlin as she went downstairs. I brushed up my whiskers for the last time, and emerged from my bedroom. As I put my foot in the passage, a rush of cold air from below, apprised me that the hall-door must be standing wide-open, and I ran down in a tumult of hurry and agitation, lest I should be too late after all. As I reached the lobby, there was a fly standing at the inn-door. An incoherent waiter, with a dirty napkin under his arm, and flourishing a Japan tea-tray wildly in his hands, was gazing vacantly at space; Miss Lushington’s head peered darkly out from amidst her lemon-nets; an ostler, with one eye, held the carriage-door; and into that carriage, with her back to me, was entering the graceful figure of a lady in a riding-habit; a taper little foot, in the neatest of boots and—what shall I call them?—leg-sleeves? receding from the top-step, being the only feature, if I may be allowed the expression, distinguishable amongst that dark mass of folds and draperies. There was a fatality about it! The thing was obviously in the hands of Destiny. The door shut-to with a bang. A pretty little gloved hand drew up the window, and the fly drove off with Miss Merlin inside, on the road to Castle Cropper. Some men are the favourites of Fortune! others, the butts and targets of Fate. I endeavour at all times to bear my reverses with a sulky equanimity. I retired accordingly, to derive what consolation I could from an elaborate and protracted breakfast by a good fire, and then proceeded into the bar to smoke.