numbers, and discussing the merits of their respective lines
of advance.

Ferrall, busily energetic, and in high spirits, greeted them gaily,
pointing out the red disc bearing their number, seven, where it stood
out distinctly above the distant scrub of the foreland.

"You two are certainly up against it!" he said, grinning. "There's only
one rougher line, and you're in for thorns and water and a scramble
across the back-bone of the divide!"

"Is it any good?" asked Siward.

"Good--if you've got the legs and Sylvia doesn't play baby--"

"I?" she said indignantly. "Kemp, you annoy me. And I will bet you now,"
she added, flushing, "that your old cup is ours."

"Wait," said Siward, laughing, "we may not shoot straight."

"You will! Kemp, I'll wager whatever you dare!"

"Gloves? Stockings?--against a cigarette case?" he suggested.

"Done," she said disdainfully, moving forward along the skirmish line
with a nod and smile for the groups now disintegrating into couples, the
Page boys with Eileen Shannon and Rena Bonnesdel, Marion Page followed
by Alderdene, Mrs. Vendenning and Major Belwether and the Tassel girl
convoyed by Leroy Mortimer. Farther along the line, taking post, she
saw Quarrier and Miss Caithness, Captain Voucher with Mrs. Mortimer, and
others too distant to recognise, moving across country with glitter and
glint of sunlight on slanting gun barrels.

And now Ferrall was climbing into his saddle beside his pretty wife, who
sat her horse like a boy, the white flag lifted high in the sunshine,
watching the firing line until the last laggard was in position.

"All right, Grace!" said Ferrall briskly. Down went the white flag; the
far-ranged line started into motion straight across country, dogs at
heel.

From her saddle Mrs. Ferrall could see the advance, strung out far
afield from the dark spots moving along the Fells boundary, to the two
couples traversing the salt meadows to north. Crack! A distant report
came faintly over the uplands against the wind.

"Voucher," observed Ferrall; "probably a snipe. Hark! he's struck them
again, Grace."

Mrs. Ferrall, watching curiously, saw Siward's gun fly up as two big
dark spots floated up from the marsh and went swinging over his head.
Crack! Crack! Down sheered the black spots, tumbling earthward out of
the sky.

"Duck," said Ferrall; "a double for Stephen. Lord Harry! how that man
can shoot! Isn't it a pity that--"

He said no more; his pretty wife as