"I congratulate you, gentlemen; you may have your run to-morrow. It no longer freezes, and there is a drizzling rain falling." Mr. Mordaunt ran out of the drawing-room, and returned in about five minutes with a radiant face. "I have been to look at the weathercock in the stable-yard," he said; "Sir Reginald Eversleigh is quite right. The wind has shifted to the sou'-west; it is raining fast, and we may have our sport to-morrow." Lionel Dale's eyes were fixed on the face of his cousin as the country squire made this announcement. To his surprise, he saw that face blanch to a death-like whiteness. "To-morrow!" murmured Sir Reginald, with a sigh. * * * * * CHAPTER XXIII. "ANSWER ME, IF THIS BE DONE?" All through the night the drizzling rain fell fast, and on the morning of the 26th, when the gentlemen at the manor-house rectory went to their windows to look out upon the weather, they were gratified by finding that southerly wind and cloudy sky so dear to the heart of a huntsman. At half-past eight o'clock the whole party assembled in the dining-room, where breakfast was prepared. Many gentlemen living in the neighbourhood had been invited to breakfast at the rectory; and the great quadrangle of the stables was crowded by grooms and horses, gigs and phaetons, while the clamour of many voices rang out upon the still air. Every one seemed to be thoroughly happy--except Reginald Eversleigh. He was amongst the noisiest of the talkers, the loudest of the laughers; but the rector, who watched him closely, perceived that his face was pale, his eyes heavy as the eyes of one who had passed a sleepless night, and that his laughter was loud without mirth, his talk boisterous, without real cheerfulness of spirit. "There is mischief of some kind in that man's heart," Lionel said to himself. "Can there be any truth in the gipsy's warning after all?" But in the next moment he was ready to fancy himself the weak dupe of his own imagination. "I dare say my cousin's manner is but what it always is," he thought; "the weary manner of a man who has wasted his youth, and sacrificed all the brilliant chances of his life, and who, even in the hour of pleasure and excitement, is oppressed by a melancholy which he strives in vain to shake off." The gathering at the breakfast-table was a brilliant one. Lydia Graham was a superb horsewoman; and in no costume did she look more attractive than in her exquisitely fitting habit of dark blue cloth. The early hour of the meet justified her breakfasting in riding-costume; and gladly availing herself of this excuse, she made her appearance in her habit, carrying her pretty little riding-hat and dainty whip in her hand.