ck pony
that's at the vet.'s, 'e's a flyer. 'E'll be 'ome to-morrow; the vet.
sent me word yesterday that 'is shoulder's all right. Strained it a
bit, 'e did. Of course they ain't made hunters, like Killaloe; but
they're quick and clever, and once you know the country, and the short
cuts, and the gaps, you can generally manage to see most of a run."
He sighed ecstatically. "Eh, but it'll be like old times to get ready
again on a hunting morning!"

The gong sounded from the house, and they bade the stables a reluctant
good-bye. Lunch waited in the morning-room; there was a pleasant
sparkle of silver and glass on a little table in the window. And
there was no doubt that Miss de Lisle could cook.

"If her temper were as good as her pastry, I should say we had found a
treasure," said Mr. Linton, looking at the fragments which remained of
a superlative apple-pie. "Let's hope that Mrs. Moroney will discover
a kitchenmaid or two, and that they will induce her to overlook our
other shortcomings."

"I'm afraid we'll never be genteel enough for her," said Norah,
shaking her curly head. "And the other servants will all hate her
because she thinks they aren't fit for her to speak to. If she only
knew how much nicer Allenby is!"

"Or Brownie," said Wally loyally. "Brownie could beat that pie with
one hand tied behind her."

Allenby entered--sympathy on every line of his face.

"The 'ousekeeper--Mrs. Atkins--would like to see you, sir. Or Miss
Linton. And so would Miss de Lisle."

But Miss de Lisle was on his heels, breathing threatenings and
slaughter.

"There must be some arrangement made as to my instructions," she
boomed. "Your housekeeper evidently does not understand my position.
She has had the impertinence to address me as 'Cook.' Cook!" She
paused for breath, glaring.

"But, good gracious, isn't it your profession?" asked Mr. Linton.

Miss de Lisle fairly choked with wrath. Wally's voice fell like oil
on a stormy sea.

"If I could make a pie like that I'd _expect_ to be called 'Cook,'"
said he. "It's--it's a regular poem of a pie!" Whereat Jim choked in
his turn, and endeavoured, with signal lack of success, to turn his
emotion into a sneeze.

Miss de Lisle's lowering countenance cleared somewhat. She looked at
Wally in a manner that was almost kindly.

"War-time cookery is a makeshift, not an art," she said. "Before the
war I could have shown you what cooking could be."

"That pie was