master of the hounds, Squire Lavington, roared aloud--

'A pretty sportsman you are, Mr. Smith, to fall asleep by the cover-
side and let your horse down--and your pockets, too! What's that
book on the ground? Sapping and studying still? I let nobody come
out with my hounds with their pocket full of learning. Hand it up
here, Tom; we'll see what it is. French, as I am no scholar!
Translate for us, Colonel Bracebridge!'

And, amid shouts of laughter, the gay Guardsman read out,--

'St. Francis de Sales: Introduction to a Devout Life.'

Poor Lancelot! Wishing himself fathoms under-ground, ashamed of his
book, still more ashamed of himself for his shame, he had to sit
there ten physical seconds, or spiritual years, while the colonel
solemnly returned him the book, complimenting him on the proofs of
its purifying influence which he had given the night before, in
helping to throw the turnpike-gate into the river.

But 'all things do end,' and so did this; and the silence of the
hounds also; and a faint but knowing whimper drove St. Francis out
of all heads, and Lancelot began to stalk slowly with a dozen
horsemen up the wood-ride, to a fitful accompaniment of wandering
hound-music, where the choristers were as invisible as nightingales
among the thick cover. And hark! just as the book was returned to
his pocket, the sweet hubbub suddenly crashed out into one jubilant
shriek, and then swept away fainter and fainter among the trees.
The walk became a trot--the trot a canter. Then a faint melancholy
shout at a distance, answered by a 'Stole away!' from the fields; a