“Lord Netherby has valued him at three hundred,” said the young man. “I gave nearly as much myself.” The Knight, who heard this conversation, without being able to interrupt it, was in perfect misery. The full measure of his ruin rushed suddenly on his mind, and the thought that, at the very moment his son was meditating this piece of extravagance, he was himself actually a beggar, sickened him to the heart. Meanwhile, Lionel walked his horse slowly round, the better to observe the animal he coveted, and then cantered back to his place at Mrs. Somerville's side. Beecham seemed to hesitate for a second or two, then, riding forward, he approached Lionel: “Perhaps you would try him to-day, Captain Darcy?” The words came hesitatingly and with difficulty. “Oh, no! he 's beyond my reach,” said Lionel, laughing. “I'd really take it as a favor if you would ride him; I 'm not strong enough to hold him, consequently cannot do him justice.” “Take the offer, Darcy,” said Lord Netherby, in a whisper, as he rode up to his side; “I have a great liking for that horse myself, and will buy him if you report favorably.” “In that case, my Lord, I'll do it with pleasure. I accept your kind proposal, and will change nags if you agree.” Beecham at once dismounted, and, beckoning to his servant, ordered him to change the saddles. While this little scene was enacting, old Conolly rode up to the Knight, with a warning to keep the ladies in the road. “The fox will take the country towards Burnadarig,” said he; “the start's with the wind; and as the fences are large and the ground heavy, they had better not attempt to follow the run.” “We will take your advice, Tom,” said the Knight. “Come here, Helen--Colonel Crofton, will you kindly bring Mrs. Somerville up here, and tell Lord Netherby to join us--the day will be for the fast ones only. There they go,--are they off?” “Not yet, not yet,” said Conolly, as, standing in his stirrups, he looked down into the glen; “they're hunting him through the furze cover this half hour. I know that fox well; he never breaks till the dogs are actually on him.” By this time the scene in the valley was becoming highly exciting; the hounds, yelping and barking, bounded hither and thither; some, with uplifted throats, bayed deeply a long, protracted note; others, with noses to the earth, ran swiftly along, and then, stopping, burst into a sharp cry, as if of pain, while old Bob Carney's voice, encouraging this one, and cursing that, was high above the tumult. “Tiresome work, this is,” said Sir Harry Beauclerk; for his horse, mad with impatience, was white with sweat, and trembled in every limb.