“That’s a matter,” added Trimbush, “I must leave to be decided between you and Ned Adams;” and then turning upon his side he closed his eyes, and a deep, low snore quickly proclaimed him to be in the land of shadowy dreams. I found kennel life at first very tedious, and soon began to pine for the farm-house, liberty, and a romp with the shaggy old shepherd’s dog. I became so home-sick at length, that had the opportunity offered, I should have run away; but when taken for exercise, I was always coupled with a companion, and no chance given of an escape from my thraldom. Notwithstanding the kindness of the feeder, in offering me food twice, and occasionally even three times a day, I got thinner and thinner, and instead of the sleek and bright coat which I had upon leaving my walk, my hackles now began to stare and to look little less rough than a badger’s skin. Trimbush, too, essayed to relieve me from my load of misery, and recounted many a tale of interest to wean me from gloomy reflections; but it was all to no purpose. I could not forget the pleasures of home. “He’ll be right enough in a day or two,” said the huntsman to an expression of regret from the feeder at my altered appearance. “Let him go cub-hunting once, and he will not sulk another hour.” “I believe ye,” rejoined the feeder. “There’s too good blood in him for that, after he has winded a fox.” “Well, then,” added the huntsman, “to-morrow at daylight we draw Wiverton Gorse; and if it does not hold a litter, it will be the first time since my servitude--a matter of twenty-five years and more.” CHAPTER II. “But, look! the morn, in russet mantle clad, Walks o’er the dew of yon high eastern hill.” The dew fell, dropping from leaf to leaf, and hung on the greensward in an endless succession of glistening gems. The mist floated on a light breeze, scarcely strong enough to waft the wet spider’s film meshed on sprig, and bough, and hawthorn spray. Mushrooms marked the rings where the elves of the night had held their orgies, and the fairy’s light--the glowworm’s lamp--still shone faintly on the moss-bank. Like a bride, veiled but not hidden, the young, gay morning broke, with a smile, the slumbering hours. Drooping flowers raised their petals, and folded blossoms opened to her kiss. Wild and happy birds heralded her coming, and all things of the day welcomed her. At daybreak we were on our road to Wiverton Gorse, accompanied by Will Sykes, the huntsman, Tom Holt and Ned Adams, the assistant whippers-in. I could not suppress the delight I felt in going to cover; and, instead of the homesick and sullen feeling which I had had for a length of time, I was ready to jump out of my skin with spirits.