The first three races--they were on the flat--had gone off admirably. They were well contested, well ridden, and the “right horse” the winner. All was contentment, therefore, on every side, to which the interval of a pleasant moment of conviviality gave hearty assistance, for now came the hour of luncheon; and from the “swells” in the great marquée, and the favored intimates in the dining-room, to the assembled unknown in the jaunting-cars, merry laughter issued, with clattering of plates and popping of corks, and those commingled sounds of banter and jollity which mark such gatherings. The great event of the day was, however, yet to come off. It was a hurdle race, to which two stiff fences were to be added, in the shape of double ditches, to test the hunting powers of the horses. The hurdles were to be four feet eight in height, so that the course was by no means a despicable one, even to good cross-country riders. To give increased interest to the race, Sewell himself was to ride, and no small share of eagerness existed amongst the neighboring gentry to see how the new-comer would distinguish himself in the saddle,--some opining he was too long of leg; some, that he was too heavy; some, that men of his age--he was over five-and-thirty--begin to lose nerve; and many going so far as to imply “that he did not look like riding,”--a judgment whose vagueness detracts nothing from its force. “There he goes now, and he sits well down too!” cried one, as a group of horsemen swept past, one of whom, mounted on a “sharp” pony, led the way, a white macintosh and loose overalls covering him from head to foot. They were off to see that the fences were all being properly put up, and in an instant were out of sight. “I'll back Tom Westenra against Sewell for a twenty-pound note,” cried one, standing up on the seat of his car to proclaim the challenge. “I'll go further,” shouted another,--“I 'll do it for fifty.” “I 'll beat you both,” cried out a third,--“I 'll take Tom even against the field.” The object of all this enthusiasm was a smart, cleanshaven little fellow, with a good blue eye, and a pleasant countenance, who smoked his cigar on the seat of a drag near, and nodded a friendly recognition to their confidence. “If Joe Slater was well of his fall, I 'd rather have him than any one in the county,” said an old farmer, true to a man of his own class and standing. “Here's one can beat them both!” shouted another; “here's Mr. Creagh of Liskmakerry!” and a thin, ruddy-faced, keen-eyed man of about fifty rode by on a low-sized horse, with that especial look of decision in his mouth, and a peculiar puckering about the corners that seem to belong to those who traffic in horse-flesh, and who, it would appear, however much they may know about horses, understand humanity more thoroughly still. “Are you going to ride, Creagh?” cried a friend from a high tax-cart.