Meantime I am finding consolation in chickens, and am looking forward to good sport next summer at the little box we have just bought down on the Wheatley Hills. The study of incubators alone is a life-task, and my mind is not quite made up as to what kind we shall get, but all my other plans have been secretly laid. Only Devereux, the eldest boy, knows about it, and we slipped down to the country day before yesterday on a prospecting tour. We were standing at the stable with the local carpenter, making estimates on the lumber needed for the hennery, when in rode Gastly and Timpey Duff, the latter on my old roan hunter, the homeliest and fastest brute that ever followed a big pack of hounds and a diminutive fox over Hempstead Plain. The sight of a red coat did stir my blood, and though I cannot say that I looked at them with envy, yet it occurred to me that it would be mighty pleasant to be astride old Christopher again, bound for the meet, as they were. Surely there is no sight so inspiring as a company of daring fellows, with the pack in full cry, running a ferocious animal from Dan to Beersheba. A noble sport! "Saw you in here," said Gastly, in that jerky way of his. "Thought you might be coming over for the fun." Now, of course, I did not intend to tell them my real business, that my fun in the future would be found in the humble and ignoble occupation of incubating Plymouth Rocks, but Devereux had to speak up and give it all away. "Huh!" said Gastly. "Ye gods!" said Timpey Duff. So they rode away, and as they turned through the gate Horatio leaned over and slapped his companion on the back. It seemed they would both roll out of their saddles. So I am getting accustomed to being regarded as one dead. But there is one consoling thing in this unfortunately fortunate situation. Gladys seems confoundedly satisfied. When I see her happy I feel that I should not growl because I have had to give up comfort and pleasure for her sake. She says she was thoroughly tired of being the late Mrs. Underbunk, and having people, who did not know, condole with her as though she were a widow; as long as she can have two comfortable houses, her carriage, plenty of clothes, and a husband who does not drink too much, she thinks she should consider herself a lucky woman. I suppose I should consider myself a lucky man, if all my old friends did not treat me as though I were a bore.