“By the way, what were you playing last, Paul?” asked the Colonel. The boy flushed. “Oh, just some nonsense, Uncle Colonel. I was through with my lesson,” he said apologetically, “and I was just fooling a bit—like Daddy used to do sometimes—” he paused, “for Mother and me, you know.” He stood quietly, looking out the door, his eyes on the far mountains. “All right, boy. Off you go,” said the Colonel. “Lunch at one, Paul, remember,” said Mrs. Pelham. “I’ll try, Aunt Augusta. But it’s awfully hard to remember sometimes.” “I want Peg at one,” said Mrs. Pelham firmly. “We have something on after lunch. I depend upon you, Paul.” “Oh, all right, then, I’ll have to remember.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and extracted something which he began to wind around his finger. “What’s that, old chap? String, eh?” “A ’lastic band—to remember me about one o’clock. I hate having to remember,” he added impatiently. “Hey day!” exclaimed Mrs. Pelham. “What sort of a boy would you be if you couldn’t remember?” “All right, Aunt Augusta, but I hate it all the same.” “He’ll remember,” said the Colonel. “He feels he’s on his honour.” “Yes, he’ll remember. He’s a reliable little beggar.” In a surprisingly short time the lad appeared on his pony, a beautiful pinto, bred from an Arabian sire out of an Indian pony, a strain of which his father was inordinately proud and in the breeding of which he had been unusually successful. The boy went flashing past the window, riding cowboy fashion, straight leg and with lines held loosely in his left hand, his cap high in his right, making right for the bars at the end of the drive. “What the—— By Jove, he’s done it! Must be quite four feet.” With never a halt the pony had taken the bars in his stride, and was off down the road, head down and at racing speed. “Superb, Augusta! Couldn’t have done it better yourself, what?” “He can ride,” said his wife. Her eyes were upon the flying figure. “He is quite without fear and has the true rider’s instinct for what his mount can do. Wonderful pony of his that. There’s a mate to it in Gaspard’s bunch I’d like for Peg.” “Oh, thanks, my dear; Peggy is quite sufficiently well mounted. Tubby does her quite well. I have no desire to see my daughter tearing like a mad thing after that race horse.” “Poor old Tubby! She does her best, but I fear she is a continual source of humiliation and heartache to her rider when out with the pinto. Perhaps next year, eh? She will be quite ready to ride with me by that time.” “With you? The Lord forbid! You know quite well, my dear, when once you are astride a horse you are conscious only of one consuming passion.” “Well, I like to hear you talk!” And it must be confessed there was ground for her scorn. For in cross-country work in the Homeland there was just one place in the hunt that gave any real satisfaction to the little Colonel, as daring a hunter as ever rode to hounds.