out bursting out coughing in the middle . . . . and now the whole field were looking on at his mishap; between disgust and the start he turned almost sick, and felt the blood rush into his cheeks and forehead as he heard a shout of coarse jovial laughter burst out close to him, and the old master of the hounds, Squire Lavington, roar aloud,—
'A pretty sportsman you are, Mr. Smith, to fall asleep by the cover-side, and let your horse down—and your pockets, too! What's that book on the ground? Sapping and studying still? I let nobody come out with my hounds with their pocket full of learning. Hand it up here, Tom; we'll see what it is. French, as I am no scholar! Translate for us, Colonel Bracebridge!'
And, amid shouts of laughter, the gay Guardsman read out,—
'St. Francis de Sales: Introduction to a Devout Life.'
Poor Lancelot! Wishing himself fathoms underground, ashamed of his book, still more ashamed of himself for his shame, he had to sit there ten physical seconds, or spiritual years, while the colonel solemnly returned him the book, complimenting him on the proofs of its purifying influence which he had given the night before, in helping to throw the turnpike-gate into the river.
But 'all things do end' and so did this; and the silence of the hounds also; and a faint but knowing whimper drove St. Francis out of all heads, and
