masters, and we recognise many a well-known flyer and honest servant’s face. “How fresh the old horse looks, John: none the worse for the Lilbourne day, when he carried your master so well!” “Never was better, sir,” answers gratified John, with a touch of his hat; partly out of compliment to ourselves, partly out of respect for the good horse. Now we observe a scarlet group collected in a knot, where the hounds meet in the centre of the village, and the church clock points to five minutes before eleven, as we bid the cheery huntsman “Good-morning,” and exchange our hack for our hunter. Mr. Sawyer probably felt very much the sort of sensations I have endeavoured to describe, as he dashed along on the free-going Dandy, in company with some of his new companions. If so, he kept them to himself. Our friend was a man of few words at the best of times; and when, as in the present instance, “big with high resolve,” taciturnity personified. Also, notwithstanding the want of the new boots, he had “got himself up” to-day with peculiar care. The result, I am bound to admit, was not entirely satisfactory; and, when that is the case, a man’s loquacity is apt to decrease in proportion. However, the roan, or “Hotspur,” as we must now call him, made a pretty good figure, as far as appearance went, even amongst a bevy of celebrated hunters, and his master felt a considerable accession of confidence when he found himself fairly mounted and ready for the fray. Miss Dove, too, had arrived in company with her papa. There was no doubt about it: she _did_ look remarkably well in her riding-habit. Mr. Sawyer, a little nervous and rather ashamed of it, doffed the velvet hunting-cap, and rode up to accost her. I need scarcely observe that the young lady’s greeting was of the coldest and most reserved. The last time she had been all smiles and sunshine: so, on the principle of rotation, to-day must be one of frigidity and decorum. It’s a way they have, you see; and one that seldom fails to put the inexperienced to utter confusion. A man cannot be said to know what the ague really is till he has suffered from the fits—both hot and cold. Take warning, John Standish Sawyer! you who have once before burnt your fingers, and had cause to dread the fire. Miss Mexico, with her quadroon stain and her thirty thousand pounds, was a queerish one to manage; but she was a fool to Miss Dove.