milk cart nags and for mending machines; cash to pay the brewer and the
butcher and the baker, neither of whom took a sovereign here when he was a
lad, for his father ate his own bacon, brewed his own beer, and baked his
own bread; cash to pay for the education of the cottagers' children; cash,
a great deal of cash, to pay the landlord.

Mr. George, having had enough of his accounts, rises and goes to the
window. A rain cloud sweeping along the distant hills has hidden them from
sight, and the rack hurries overhead driven before the stormy wind. There
comes a knock at the door. It is the collector calling the second time for
the poor rates, which have grown heavier of late.

But, however delayed, the haymaking is finished at last, and by-and-by,
when the leaves have fallen and the hunting commences, a good run drives
away for the time at least the memory of so unpropitious a season. Then
Mr. George some mild morning forms one of a little group of well-mounted
farmers waiting at a quiet corner while the hounds draw a great wood. Two
of them are men long past middle age, whose once tawny beards are
grizzled, but who are still game, perhaps more so than the rising
generation. The rest have followed them here, aware that these old hands
know every inch of the country, and are certain to be in the right place.
The spot is not far from the park wall, where the wood runs up into a
wedge-shaped point, and ends in a low mound and hedge. Most of the company
at the meet in the park have naturally cantered across the level sward,
scattering the sheep as they go, and are now assembled along the side of
the wood, near where a green 'drive' goes through it, and apparently gives
direct access to the fields beyond. From thence they can see the huntsman
in the wood occasionally, and trace the exact course the hounds are taking
in their search.