It chanced that Moreton discovered Miss Noble's pique at Reynolds because of his neglect to fulfill his promise to teach her the art of handling a gun. This gave him a most excellent excuse for offering himself as her instructor. He borrowed Reynolds' little gun and made the most of his opportunities. His patience was unbounded and Miss Noble's zeal unflagging, so that between them they squandered a great deal of time down on a little open plat between the house and the river, banging away at an improvised target. As for Reynolds, his promise to Miss Noble was entirely forgotten by him. His love for Agnes Ransom had crowded every lighter thing from his consciousness. General DeKay and Mr. Noble remained faithful to the object of the occasion, pursuing the birds with dogs and guns each day with unremitting ardor. Young Beresford and his sister, after a most commendable effort to stem, with a show of good natured indifference, the tide setting against the passion of one and the pride of the other, went away, taking with them, much against their will, the unflagging Miss Crabb, whose pencil had filled the little red book with pot-hook notes of what she had seen and heard. Miss Crabb had failed, however, to get any sketches from Moreton. He had, at last, begged her to release him from the obligation of his hasty promise. "I did not think," he said to her; "I did not once think of the--the--the propriety of the thing, don't you know, when we were talking about it; but it would offend every one here. These people are peculiarly exclusive--very proud people, Miss Crabb, and they would take it as a gross breach of hospitality. I am very sorry, and I hope you will not--not----" "Oh, no, certainly, I see," she exclaimed, in confused haste. "It's all right, Mr. Beresford--Moreton I mean, it's all right, I assure you; but do you think they'll care for my writing them up? I don't see how I can afford to waste all this material. It'll work up so charmingly." "I don't pretend to advise as to that," Moreton evasively answered. "You needn't send them any copy of your paper. It takes any thing new a century to get here, if it isn't especially sent. Use your own good editorial judgment, Miss Crabb." "Yes, of course," she responded, thoughtfully adjusting her gloves, "it is a matter of business, a matter of bread and butter with me. I must make every edge cut." She was silent for a moment. Presently she looked up quickly and keenly, adding in a thin voice: "If one writes for the public one must write what is of interest. One can't afford to stand on small proprieties. I can't, at least: I'm poor."