VII. 



A SOCIAL PROBLEM. 



"That's a rare good-looking one. Whose is it?" 

 Scatterly inquires one day, as he rides up to join a little 

 group of us at a meet at the Kennels, and gazes at a 

 model of a light-weight bay hunter, which is being led 

 to and fro by a groom of peculiarly sporting aspect, 

 mounted himself on a very likely-looking chestnut 

 mare. 



"Don't know the man or the horse either. They 

 don't live in these parts," Downing answers ; but Wyn- 

 nerly is better informed, and, coming up in time to hear 

 the last remark, enlightens us. 



" That's Arthur Crossley's man ; and I suppose he's 

 coming to hunt with us to-day," he observes. And his 

 opinion is speedily verified, for the moment afterwards 

 Crossley appears at the other end of the road, cantering 

 on the grass by the wayside, his neat hack well 

 splashed with mud, as is natural after a twelve-mile 

 journey along miry roads, with an occasional cut across 

 country. 



"Why the deuce does he come here when the Fallow- 

 field meet at the Hall, I wonder?" Scatterly mutters, 



