life of him, he could not utter the words that were trembling on
his lips.

"I don't believe you care much for shooting, Mr. Hayes."

A rabbit loped slowly across die road not twenty yards from the
gun, but Harold had not noticed it. He roused himself with a start,
however, at the sound of his companion's voice.

"Oh yes, I do, sometimes," he answered, glancing alertly to both
sides of the road; but no game was in sight for the moment.

"If this frost should break up, you may have some hunting," pursued
Miss Connolly. "I'm afraid you're having an awfully stupid time."

Harold interposed an eager denial.

"Oh yes, you must be," insisted the young lady; "but Jack will find
more time now, and if we have a thaw you will have a day with the
hounds. Are you fond of hunting?"

"I am very fond of riding, but I have never hunted," answered the
New-Yorker.

"Just like me. I am never so happy as when I am on horseback, but
mamma won't let me ride to hounds. She says she does not approve
of ladies on the field. It is traditional, I suppose, that every
mistress of Lisnahoe should oppose hunting."

"Indeed, why so?" inquired Harold.