84 TALES OF THE TURF AND THE CHASE. 



sixteen, radiant with health and anticipated enjoyment, ap- 

 proached him as the last guest left the Hurst on the tour of 

 inspection just mentioned, and, standing before the faithful ser- 

 vitor, who had grown gray in the service, added, with an air of 

 frank naivete, 



' How do I look ?' 



' As you always do. Miss Blanche. I had rather some one 

 else answered that question. I suppose Lord Ernest will be one 

 of the Brackenlea Park party.' 



' Now ! If I have told you — but there, I know I can trust 

 you, Trenholm. You see I am wearing the Hurst colours' — and 

 she turned archly to show her dress — ' although disagreeable 

 papa is not going to run anything of ours for the Cup. No. He 

 is not a disagreeable papa. He is a dear, dear love of a papa. 

 Do you know if little Crowfoot wins that Greystone Plate, he is 

 going to give me — Well, I sha'n't tell you.' 



' But I know. Miss Blanche.' 



' You do ? Well, then, tell me. Will Crowfoot win ?' 



' I hope so. Yes, he will win' (' that is,' he muttered to him- 

 self, ' he will get the stakes'). ' O, he'll win hard enough.' 



Trenholm had been looking out of the window as he spoke. 

 The sight of Sir Thomas Acklam making the best of his way 

 towards a plantation of firs, wherein there was a footpath which 

 v.-as a short cut to Redmarshall, had inspired the butler's con- 

 cluding remark. If Mr. Freeman and the baronet could not 

 bowl them out, it was a pity ! 



There was a brilliant company in the stewards' stand, declared 

 the local chroniclers ; and the course was thronged with precisely 

 such a numerous company as might have been expected to 

 assemble to assist at the last Redmarshall race-meeting on 

 Brackenlea. The two tug-boats which had been converted into 

 excursion steamers for the occasion had delivered huge cargoes 

 of passengers from Redmarshall, and it was a subject of remark 

 that the roads which converged to a point convenient to the 

 course were never so thronged before. Mr. Wrightson was in 

 raptures. The receipts had swollen the exchequer to an extent 

 that made the continuance of the meeting, elsewhere than at 

 Brackenlea, a matter of certainty if only another course could be 

 found — and that was, after all, very much a question of funds. 



Three races had been decided, including the Cup, which had 

 fallen to the favourite, Beetlewing. The next was the Greystone 

 Plate. To the surprise of the betting-men from a distance this 



