"It's for Blessington Osiers," says Charles. "If we cut across to the left and over the brook we shall hit it off." "You are right, Charles," rejoins the Parson. "What do you say, Wilson?" "For'ard on, then," replies the Doctor; and the trio gallop off almost in a contrary direction to the hounds. They negotiate the water in safety, and pull up by the side of the Osiers just as the hunted fox enters them. Charles rides off to the bottom end to view him through, and as Tom comes up with the pack his "Tailly-ho, for'ard a-w-a-i-y!" proclaims the fact that Reynard has not found Blessington a place of rest. "Why, where the deuce have you arrived from?" is the universal question asked by all the field. "Home," says the Doctor with a chuckle, as he sets Ladybird going now in her proper place--in the front rank--and swings over a nasty fence with a double ditch. As he lands on the other side he notices the Secretary's nephew, a young lad who is riding a chestnut that is evidently as much as the boy can manage, and as his eye falls on the stiff timber which appears at the far end of the field he wonders what will happen. "Don't go too fast at the rails, my boy," he says. "Steady. My G--d, what a smash!" as the impetuous brute rushes at the fence, and, breasting the top rail, turns a regular somersault, throwing the boy, luckily, clear of him. The Doctor is off his horse in a moment, and hounds and hunting are forgotten as he kneels by the side of the pale little face, supporting the lad's head on his breast, and feeling with professional skill for any injury. "Stand back, gentlemen, please," he exclaims, as some of the field collect round. "Give the boy air. There's nothing wrong beyond a slight shock and a broken arm. Ah Boulter, don't be alarmed," as the Secretary rides up. "Get him in a cart, and drive him home. I'll be round and set his arm directly." "I'm all right, uncle," says the nephew, who has revived after a pull at the Doctor's flask. "Let me go on." "No, my boy, you can't go on. You've broken your arm, and will have to be quiet for a bit," replies Mr. Boulter. "What a bore!" ejaculates the lad; but adds, with a twinkle in his eye, "You'll have to pay Doctor Wilson a fee after all, uncle." Everybody laughs at this, and the Doctor mutters under his breath: "That's what I call pluck." Then, trotting off home to fetch his paraphernalia, he is at The Grange almost as soon as the invalid. After making him comfortable, the Doctor has to go off on other errands of mercy, and as he drives the seven miles to visit his next patient, he tells Thomas that he is sorry to have missed the end of the run, but if anything could repay him it is the amount of pluck shown by the Secretary's little nephew.