THE DAY'S WORK 219 



a pair of them napping. Two sleek hinds spring out 

 of a moss-bog within half gun-shot, but, as it would 

 be idle cruelty mangling them with No. 6, they are 

 quit for the fright. Their light bounds lift them 

 safely along where no human foot dare follow, their 

 ruddy hides smeared to the ears with the jet-black 

 mud they have been lying in. A sporting who-oop 

 from the gillie nearest, and they change their canter 

 for a startled gallop, and, taking each obstacle as it 

 conies in their frantic stride, are away at their fleetest 

 for the wild sanctuary of their forest. 



There are gorgeous evening lights on the rocky 

 peaks and the heathery summits, although the valley 

 depths are disappearing in the evening gloom, as we 

 turn the shoulder above the shooting-box, and in the 

 calm satisfaction of a well-spent day drawing to a 

 pleasant close, work our way in zigzags down upon 

 the orifices of the chimneys. We shoot conscientiously 

 still ; although from time to time, as Shot or Sancho 

 conspicuously come to a stand on the heights above, 

 and compel us to retrace our steps, there is something 

 like a plaintive murmur in the depths of our hearts 

 in response to the appeal of aching back-sinews. But 

 what is pleasure without the alternation of hardship, 

 if not of pain ? the dreary monotony of a magnificent 

 summer without a cloud or a shower ? and the countless 

 steps you have made since you left that door at early 

 dawn, to return to it some fifteen hours later, have 

 all been leading on to the moment when, after bath 

 and deliberate toilette, you draw your chairs to a 



