"This meet," continued Polly, "was on New-Year's Day. There was
a great gathering, and after breakfast the gentlemen came out and
mounted at the door; the hounds were grouped on the lawn; it must
have been a beautiful sight."

"It must, indeed," assented Harold.

"Well, this old Mr. Connolly--but you must understand that he was
not old at all, only all this happened so long ago--he mounted his
horse, and his wife came out on the step to bid him good-bye, and
to remind him of his promise that this should be his last hunt.
And so it was, poor fellow; for while she was standing talking
to him, a gust of wind came and blew part of her dress right into
the horse's face. Mr. Connolly was riding a very spirited animal.
It reared up and fell back on him, killing him on the spot."

"How horrible!" exclaimed Harold.

"Wait! The shock to the young wife was so great that she died the
next day."

"The poor girl!"

"Don't waste your sympathy. It was all very long ago, and perhaps
it never happened at all. However, the curious part of the story
is to come. Every one that had been present at that meet--men,
dogs, horses--everything died within the year."

"To the ruin of the local insurance companies?" remarked Harold,
with a smile.