maddening sensation of sweeping through the air over the fence. He
started, checked the curb, the horse threw up his head, fulfilling
his name by driving his knees like a battering-ram against the
pales--the top-bar bent like a withe, flew out into a hundred
splinters, and man and horse rolled over headlong into the hard
flint-road.

For one long sickening second Lancelot watched the blue sky between
his own knees. Then a crash as if a shell had burst in his face--a
horrible grind--a sheet of flame--and the blackness of night. Did
you ever feel it, reader?

When he awoke, he found himself lying in bed, with Squire Lavington
sitting by him. There was real sorrow in the old man's face, 'Come
to himself!' and a great joyful oath rolled out. 'The boldest rider
of them all! I wouldn't have lost him for a dozen ready-made spick
and span Colonel Bracebridges!'

'Quite right, squire!' answered a laughing voice from behind the
curtain. 'Smith has a clear two thousand a year, and I live by my
wits!'



CHAPTER II: SPRING YEARNINGS



I heard a story the other day of our most earnest and genial
humorist, who is just now proving himself also our most earnest and