The cover lay in a small valley, almost deep enough to be called a glen, watered by a stream which in winter and summer took the alternate character of torrent or rivulet; gently sloping hills rose on either side, their banks clad with low furze and fern, and behind them a wide plain extended to the foot of the great mountains of Connemara. Both sides of the little glen were now occupied by groups on foot or horseback, as each calculated on the likelihood of the fox taking this direction or that. On the narrow road which led along the crest of the lower hill were many equipages to be seen, some of which were filled with ladies, whose waving feathers and gay colors served to heighten the effect of the landscape. The horsemen were dotted about, some on the ridge of the rising ground, some lower down on the sloping sides, and others walked their horses through the dense cover, watching as the dogs sprang and bounded from copse to copse, and made the air vibrate with their deep voices. The arrival of the Knight's party created no slight sensation as carriages and horsemen came dashing up the hill, and took their station on an eminence, from whence all who were not mounted might have a view of the field. No sooner was he recognized, than such as had the honor of personal acquaintance moved forward to pay their respects and welcome him home again; among whom Beecham O'Reilly appeared, but with such evident diffidence of manner and reserve that Darcy, from motives of delicacy, was forced to take a more than ordinary notice of him. “We were sorry not to have your company at the abbey last night; you 've had a cold, I hear,” said the Knight. “Yes, sir; this is the first day I've ventured out.” “Let me introduce you to Lord Netherby. One of our foremost riders, my Lord, Mr. Beecham O'Reilly. You may see that the merit is not altogether his own,--splendid horse you have there.” “He's very powerful,” said the young man, accepting the praise with an air of easy indifference. “In my country,” interposed Lord Netherby, “we should value him at three hundred guineas, if his performance equal his appearance.” “I say, Lionel, come here a moment,” cried the Knight. “What do you think of that horse?--but don't you know your old playfellow, Beecham? Have you both forgotten each other?” “How are you, Beecham? I'd never have guessed you. To be sure, it is six years since we met. You were in Dublin, I think, when I was over on leave last?” “No, at Oxford,” said Beecham, with a slight flush as he spoke; for although he accepted the warm shake-hands Lionel proffered, his manner was one of constraint all through. Young Darcy was, however, too much occupied in admiring the horse to bestow much attention on the rider. “He 'd carry you well,” said Beecham, as if interpreting what was passing in his mind, “and as I have no fancy for him,--a worse horse will carry my weight as well,--I 'd sell him.” “At what price?”