We must, however, return to the pack. The Master is moving off, and as he waves the pack over a bank into the heather any hound throwing his tongue will be severely dealt with if the whipper-in can only get near enough to administer one cut, accompanied by “Ware riot, Melody!” for business has begun. Ten couple of hounds there are in all, and two couple of them are unentered. Melody is one of these, and while there must be no question of sparing the rod, we have a fellow-feeling for her exuberance of spirits. The delinquent already has her stern up once more (it was momentarily lowered on receipt of the whipper-in’s practical rebuke), and is as busy as any of them, flinging here and there, and pushing her way into a cluster of hounds which look remarkably busy, for, yes! they have already struck a line, no doubt of a hare returning from feeding in the grass meadows adjoining the common. The huntsman maintains a masterly inactivity, merely rating any hound which shows an inclination to dwell on the line. Now they are running quite merrily across the heather, but come to a stop where the hare has taken to one of the paths which abound hereabouts. She has run the path for quite eighty yards, and only the older hounds can carry the line along it, the body of the pack casting about, and showing a slight inclination to run heel. The huntsman, however, holds them forward, walking quietly along the path, well in rear of those hounds who are carrying the line. These tactics result in a pretty hit, for, although the hare has run the road for eighty yards, she has run her foil for at least twenty-five before flinging off, so that the body hit the line out of the path while the old hounds are still picking out the scent further along; but these at once go to cry, and the whole pack flings briskly forward. The huntsman allows them very ample room, knowing that puss has very likely made her form not far away. See! they have overrun the scent, and, as they spread back fan-like to recover the line, up jumps the hare and off they go, running in view for a short distance, and then taking up the line with a chorus which at once proclaims a scent. The whipper-in is lying wide, and succeeds in turning the hare out of a broad sandy path which would otherwise undoubtedly have caused a check; and away they go over the open heather at a pace which tries our wind terribly. The pack head straight for a sort of island farm which lies on a hill side in the middle of the heather, cross it, and, emerging once more at the top of the hill, run beautifully over the heathery flat until they come to a main road, where they check long enough to enable the huntsman to get up to them.