n embargo upon any
more needless adventures on his part.

"It isn't that, sweetheart," he answered. "I'm only too happy here--
with you. But I seem to be hanging back--sort of skulking--while every
other fellow who can shoot straight, or not, is in the field."

She laughed softly.

"Skulking! You? Why, you've done the share of any ten men since the
beginning of the war. No--no--Dick. If that's all that's troubling
you, why it needn't. And now, look here, you are to go on escort duty.
You are to escort me--home."

Dick's face brightened.

"But, dearest, you are forgetting," he said, with a puzzled look. "The
road isn't safe yet--not by a long chalk--for you to travel under such a
small escort as myself and Greenoak."

"It'll be a bigger one. The Commandant is sending a lot of Police to
King Williamstown in a day or two, and he says I may travel under their
escort. Will you make one of it?"

"Won't I!" he answered delightedly.

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

ENVOI.

The partridges were lying well, springing up in fine coveys from the
turnips, or from corn-sheaves on the stubble, or in twos and threes, as
the coveys were broken up. A soft haze hung over the fair English
landscape, with its green meadow or golden stubble and vernal woodland,
the latter hardly beginning to show the gorgeous wealth of autumn colour
which would soon enwrap it; for it was the Glorious First.

"By Jove, Greenoak," said Sir Anson Selmes, "we thought we'd got a few
record bird-shots this side of the water. But even they don't touch
you. Why, man, I don't believe you've let a bird go by this morning;
all killed dead too--no runners."

The two were walking together, gun on shoulder, an old and favourite
pointer of Sir Anson's trotting at their heels. The morning's shoot was
over and they were making for the spot where, in the cool shade of a
spreading tree, luncheon was laid out and waiting. About half a field
off our friend Dick was converging on the rendezvous, with the keepers
and dogs, apparently engaged in animated converse with the former.

"Oh, as to that, Sir Anson, you couldn't miss a bird with a gun like
this," was the modest reply; the gun being, in fact, one of a valuable
pair which had been sprung upon Harley Greenoak as a surprise present
from Dick and his father conjointly.

"And as to that," rejoined the latter, "there are a good many men who'd
miss a good many birds with a gun like that or any other. But