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A DISTINGUISHED STEANGEE. 



It was one fine, brisk morning of the first week in 

 November that a smart mail phaeton, drawn by a dashing 

 pair of dark grey horses, might have been seen wending its 

 way by high roads and narrow lanes to certain cross roads, 

 known to the neighbourhood as the Hawthorn Dale Four 

 Ways. The occupants of this neat equipage are a lady 

 enveloped in furs, and a gentleman in a drab driving coat, the 

 outer garments of each concealing from view the smartly cut 

 habit of the one and the scarlet coat of the other. It was the 

 all-important opening day with the Hawthorn Dale foxhounds, 

 and from time immemorial the first meet of the season had 

 been at the cross roads, whither our friends were bent. A real 

 hunting morning it was, too. There had been a slight frost 

 during the night, but the sun had removed all traces of it, 

 except a stickiness of the roads, and a slight mist hanging 

 here and there ; altogether it was one of those exhilarating 

 mornings when one feels that there must be a good fox, a 

 good scent, and a good gallop. 



The couple in the phaeton are Lord Healingborough and 

 his sister. Lady Winifred Hainton, on a visit to him for a 

 week or two's hunting ; he, a soldierly looking man of about 

 five and thirty, and she, his youngest and favourite sister, a 

 neat little woman some twelve years his junior, not handsome, 

 but with a kind, bright little face and honest blue eyes that 

 won admiration everywhere. 



" Well, Charlie," she is saying, " from all accounts you have 

 not a very high opinion of your new Master." 



