ity and
no development. They have become new creatures. Christian, alone of
her family, was essentially as she had ever been, and, being of those
whose inward regard is as searching as their outward observation, she
knew it. Now, Larry had come back again, and in half-a-dozen sentences
she knew that neither had he changed, and that with him her ancient
leader had returned.

The Wood of Nad (which, being interpreted, means a nest) filled a
pocket on the side of Lissoughter Hill, and had thence spread over the
crest of the hill, and ended near the cross-roads at which the hounds
had met.

"Don't holloa away an old fox. I want to kill a cub if I can. I'll let
you know if the hounds get away below. You needn't be afraid I won't!
Open the gate!"

Thus, magisterially, the Master, standing at the gate into the wood,
with the hounds crushing round his horse's heels, "Leu in there!"

With a squeal or two of excitement from Dido and her brethren-puppies,
the hounds squeezed through the narrow gateway, and were swallowed up
by the wood.

Larry returned to Christian's side.

"I hate not seeing Cousin Dick out," he began; "what a pity he gave
'em up! Why did he? You know, Christian, you were pretty rotten about
writing to me! Aunt Freddy never tells me a thing about the Hunt! I
didn't even know Cousin Dick had chucked till I saw it in _The
Field_."

Larry was staring at Christian as he spoke. He, like her was searching
for his former comrade; but, unlike her, was doing so unconsciously,
as Larry did most things: What he believed himself to be doing was
appraising her appearance from a painter's point of view. He found he
had forgotten her eyes. He tried to think of them in terms of paint;
_Brun de Bruxelles_, and a touch of cadmium, or was it _Verte
Emeraude_? Hang it! How can paint do more than suggest the colours of
a sunlit moorland pool? Was it the white hunting-tie that gave that
special "value" to her face He had forgotten how delicious in tone was
the faint colour that just tinted her cheek; so hopeless a word as
pink was not to be thought of; just a hint of _Rose Garance dore_,
might do it. And to get the drawing of those subtle outlines the
ineffable refinement of all her features. Larry put his head on one
side, and screwed up his eyes (remembering faithfully the injunctions
of "dear old Chose," _en clignant bien les yeux_) and said to himself
that she would put dear old Chose himself to his trumps, and then
may