the face of Grabble's wheezy mare, with a
smile.

The kill was a pretty thing, on a steep
grass hill-side, in view—the strangers fairly
up. After the whoo-whoop, they turned their
horses' heads and rode off, without giving
any one a chance of saying a word.

Their departure was the signal for a thousand
questions. Who were they? What were
they? Where did they come from? Their
persons, their horses, their accoutrements,
were severely criticised. Their appearance
in the field was treated as impudence; the
man was a strolling player, if not a Frenchman.
Parson Doddle suggested that he
might be an emissary of the Pope; Lawyer
Toddle suspected he was a Russian spy rather
than otherwise. At length an appeal was
made to Lord Bullrush, whom they despised
for his youth, his half shyness and his
ignorance of fox hunting, and whom they admired
for his title and his estate. My lord gave it
against them. He thought "the stranger a
neat style of man who rode well, and the girl
was monstrous pretty." This changed the
current of criticism. Then came the news
from Toddle's articled clerk, Bob Charply,
that the strangers had taken the farm-house
which formerly belonged to Farmer Cherry,
and had six horses there; but only brought
two men servants—one of whom was a yokel
—and had hired a maid and two
understrappers in the village. They were man and
wife, named Burden, or Barden, or Barnard,
or something beginning with a B.

The next hunting day—we went out three
times a week—the mysterious B's were on the
field. This time mounted on two greys, better
bred, better broke, and handsomer than
anything in Lord Bullrush's stud. Again they
rode forward, again disappointed Grabble, and
Doddle, and Toddle, by not getting into grief.
Ours is a fair country, with stiff hunting
fences and some water, but it seemed child's
play to the lady; and, as for the husband, he
rode like one who had been crossing such a
country all his life—quite quiet, and as
firm as a rock. The vexatious thing was,
that when all the club had decided that he
was not to be noticed, or answered, or
encouraged, he never gave them a chance of
being impertinent, never spoke, never seemed
to see any one: rode away the moment it
was decided that the hounds were to go home.
Some of the younger members of the hunt,
thawed by the bright eyes and dashing style
of the lady B., attempted a few civilities;
but with no sort of success, although she
succeeded in getting several into terrible
croppers, by leading them over tremendous
fences at the end of a hard run. Her
favourite bay, thorough-bred, with her
feather weight, was what she called him,
Perfection.

The steady silence of the strangers had its
effect. To my great amusement, after a certain
time it began to be rumoured that they were
a young couple of high rank living incognito.
One day the news came that the gentleman
was a French prince of the blood; then he
was the grandson of a noble duke; then he
was the nephew of an English north-country
earl. At length it was settled that they were
most distinguished personages, who chose to
bear the simple name of Barnard. Toddle's
wife went in her new carriage with her best
harness to make a call, when she knew they
were out hunting, but found no one to answer
her questions except stupid Molly Coddlin
from our Blankshire charity school, where the
smallest quantity of instruction was doled out
among large lots of girls in hideous uniforms.
Molly knew nothing except that her missis
and master were real quality, and that
Reuben, the saucy groom at home, had strict
orders to let no one in. Mrs. Doddles tried,
and called when Mrs. Barnard was at home.
Mrs. Doddles had loudly proclaimed, after
seeing the mysterious lady at the cathedral
in a Parisian bonnet, that she must be an
actress. Mrs. Doddles's cards were received,
but "Master and missis were out, they told
me to say," was the satisfactory answer.
Squire Grabble, full of some private information,
so far changed, that he rode up to the
unknown horseman, and "hoped he'd join a
few friends to dinner that evening;" to which
the stranger answered loudly, before three or
four of Grabble's set, "I have not the honour
of knowing you, sir; and you don't know
me. I may be a bagman, or a play-actor, or
even a newspaper writer, as, you observed
to my servant the other day; therefore, I
beg to decline your invitation."

Grabble grew so blue that I began to feel
for a lancet. He spluttered out, "Do you
mean to insult me?"

"Just as you please," said the stranger,
laughing, and looking down on the little
fuming man. So there the conversation
ended.

At length I was sent on an embassy from
Lord Bullrush, and got for answer, very
civilly, that Mr. B. had come down for
amusement and good sport, did not intend
to go into society, much obliged, and all
that.

For the rest of the winter these mysterious
B's supplied our city with the staple of gossip.
Offers to buy their horses were declined with
"not at present." In the end, the conclusion
come to was, that Mr. B. was some great
personage in disguise. The majority inclined
towards a Russian agent; though Doddles
stuck up for the Pope and the Jesuit's
College. All agreed that such horses were never
seen in the county.

While the mystery was at its height;
when Lord Bullrush, perfectly frantic at
being balked, had determined to storm the
house and throw himself at the feet of a
young damsel, apparently a sister of the lady
in the Spanish hat; the farm-house was found
shut up. Farmer Cherry's executors advertised