front of him, and alongside the hounds, rode the dauntless Miss Merlin, sailing away on “Lady-Killer.” I recognised his long swish-tail even at that distance; taking everything as it came in his stride, and diverging neither to right nor left. Even at the pace I was going, my heart beat faster at the sight. If such were wanting, this was indeed an additional inducement to catch them at any price. I caught hold of Tipple Cider’s head, and for a few resolute minutes I do believe the deluded animal thought he had got a regular “out-and-outer” on his back. The hounds bent somewhat to the right. Tips, who had an eye like a hawk, perceived it in a moment; and turning round on the saddle, good-naturedly motioned me to follow him. By diverging a little, we got upon a succession of sound headlands, with fair easy fences; the hounds kept turning towards us, and we began to overhaul them rapidly. Excited as I was, I could not but admire the masterly manner in which the rough-rider handled the young one at his leaps. We were getting on gloriously. The first flight, including Miss Merlin, although a couple of fields distant, were scarcely nearer the hounds than ourselves. I rejoiced to think that I should drop amongst them, as it were, from the clouds, and assume my place in the front rank. A momentary hesitation, another down-wind turn of the hounds, and there was but one fence between ourselves and the pack. My leader charged it resolutely; I prepared to follow him. It was an ugly place—a downhill gallop at it, a high straggling fence, sedgy banks, and something that was more of a watercourse than a ditch running on the far side. Tips was as eager as a glutton, but the young one’s heart failed him the last stride; and, although his rider had him in such a grasp that he could not refuse, the powder was out of him, and he jumped short, dropping his hind legs, and rolling into the next field. Tips was hardly clear of his horse before he was on him again; and I do not believe he lost half-a-dozen strides by the fall. Why did I not follow? My heart failed me. I thought it would be rash to go where another horse had fallen, though I had seen exactly how it happened; and Tipple Cider was shaking his head, as much as to say, “Why won’t you let me have a drive?” So _I went to look for another place_. That sentence explains everything. Need I say how, the further I rode along the fence, the deeper and wider it became? Need I confess that I was eventually compelled to creep ignominiously through a gap in a green lane, the disappointed Tipple Cider grinding my leg against a tree and crushing my hat amongst its branches, in his disgust; or that I proceeded along this convenient alley as far as it lasted with renewed hopes, dashed by a bitter sense of vexation and shame? A stern chase is a long chase, by land as well as by sea; and there is no process, in my opinion, so utterly disheartening as that of trying to catch hounds in a run.