morning--of your brush."

She looked at him, abruptly serious. "Why did you do that?"

"Sanctuary. His two beady eyes begged so hard for it. 'Twenty ravenous
hounds,' they said, 'and a dozen galloping horses. And look what a poor
shivering little red-brown morsel _I_ am!'"

For just an instant the bronze-gold head gave a quick imperious toss,
like a high-mettled pony under the flick of the whip. But as suddenly
the shadow of resentment passed; the mobile face under the bent hat-brim
turned thoughtful. "Poor little beastie!" she said meditatively. "We
so seldom think of his side, do we! We think only of the run, the
dog-music, the wild rush along the wet fields, with the horses straining
and pounding under us. I've ridden to hounds all my life. Everybody does
down here." She looked again at him. "Do you think it's wrong to kill
things?" she asked gravely.

"Oh, dear, no," he smiled. "I haven't a single _ism_. I'm not even a
vegetarian."

"But you would be if you had to kill your own meat?"

"Perhaps. So many of us would. As a matter of fact, I don't hunt
myself, but I'm no reformer."

"Why don't you hunt?"

"I don't enjoy it." He flushed slightly. "I hate firearms," he said, a
trifle difficultly. "I always have. I don't know why. Idiosyncrasy, I
suppose. But I shouldn't care for hunting, even with bows and arrows. I
would kill a tiger or a poisonous reptile, or anything else, in case of
necessity. But even then I should hardly enjoy it. I know some animals
are pests and have to be killed. Some men do, too. But I don't like to
do it myself."

"Wouldn't that theory lead to a wholesale evasion of responsibility?"

"Perhaps. I'm no philosopher. But a blackbird or a red fox is so pretty,
even when he is thieving, that I'd let him have the corn. I'm like the
Lord High Executioner in _The Mikado_ who was so tender-hearted that he
couldn't execute anybody and planned to begin with guinea-pigs and work
up. Only I'm afraid I couldn't even manage the guinea-pigs."

She laughed. "You wouldn't find many to practise on here. Do you raise
guinea-pigs up North?"

"Ah," he said ruefully, "you tag me, too. Have I by chance a large
letter N tattooed upon my manly brow? But I suppose it's the accent.
Uncle Jefferson catalogued me in five minutes. He said he didn't know
_why_ I was from 'de Norf,' but he '_knowed_' it. I've annexed him and
his wife, by the way."

"You're lucky to have them. Unc' Jefferson and Aunt Daph might