g jacket broidered in gold and silver, with
the motto of his house, "Coeur Vaillant se fait Royaume," all circled
with oak and laurel leaves on the collar.

It was the work of very fair hands, of very aristocratic hands, and
he looked at it with a smile. "Ah, my lady, my lady!" he thought half
aloud, "do you really love me? Do I really love you?"

There was a laugh in his eyes as he asked himself what might be termed
an interesting question; then something more earnest came over his face,
and he stood a second with the pretty costly embroideries in his hand,
with a smile that was almost tender, though it was still much more
amused. "I suppose we do," he concluded at last; "at least quite as
much as is ever worth while. Passions don't do for the drawing-room, as
somebody says in 'Coningsby'; besides--I would not feel a strong emotion
for the universe. Bad style always, and more detrimental to 'condition,'
as Tom would say, than three bottles of brandy!"

He was so little near what he dreaded, at present at least, that the
scarlet jacket was tossed down again, and gave him no dreams of his fair
and titled embroideress. He looked out, the last thing, at some ominous
clouds drifting heavily up before the dawn, and the state of the
weather, and the chance of its being rainy, filled his thoughts, to the
utter exclusion of the donor of that bright gold-laden dainty gift. "I
hope to goodness there won't be any drenching shower. Forest King can
stand ground as hard as a slate, but if there's one thing he's weak in
it's slush!" was Bertie's last conscious thought, as he stretched his
limbs out and fell sound asleep.

CHAPTER III.

THE SOLDIERS' BLUE RIBBON.

"Take the Field bar one." "Two to one on Forest King." "Two to one on
Bay Regent." "Fourteen to seven on Wild Geranium." "Seven to two against
Brother to Fairy." "Three to five on Pas de Charge." "Nineteen to six
on Day Star." "Take the Field bar one," rose above the hoarse tumultuous
roar of the ring on the clear, crisp, sunny morning that was shining on
the Shires on the day of the famous steeple-chase.

The talent had come in great muster from London; the great bookmakers
were there with their stentor lungs and their quiet, quick entry of
thousands; and the din and the turmoil, at the tiptop of their height,
were more like a gathering on the Heath or before the Red House, than
the local throngs that usually mark steeple-chase meetings, even when
they be the Gra