‘Why shouldn’t I tell?’ he exclaimed.  ’It was quite a heroic adventure.  You must know our fox-hunting here is rather a peculiar institution,—­very good in its way, but strictly local.  No horse could live among our hills, so we hunt on foot, and as the pace is good, and the work hard, nobody who starts with the hounds is likely to be in at the death, except the huntsmen.  We are all mad for the sport, and off we go, over the hills and far away, picking up a fresh field as we go.  The ploughman leaves his plough, and the shepherd leaves his flock, and the farmer leaves his thrashing, to follow us; in every field we cross we get fresh blood, while those who join us at the start fall off by degrees.  Well, it happened one day late in October, when there were long ridges of snow on Helvellyn, and patches of white on Fairfield, Mistress Mary here must needs take her bamboo staff and start for the Striding Edge.  It was just the day upon which she might have met her death easily on that perilous point, but happily something occurred to divert her juvenile fancy, for scarcely had she got to the bottom of Dolly Waggon Pike—­you know Dolly——­’

‘Intimately,’ said Hammond, with a nod.

’Scarcely had she neared the base of Dolly Waggon when she heard the huntsman’s horn and the hounds at full cry, streaming along towards Dunmail Raise.  Off flew Molly, all among the butcher boys, and farmers’ men, and rosy-cheeked squireens of the district—­racing over the rugged fields—­clambering over the low stone walls—­up hill, down hill—­shouting when the others shouted—­never losing sight of the waving sterns—­winding and doubling, and still going upward and upward, till she stood, panting and puffing like a young grampus, on the top of Seat Sandal, still all among the butcher boys and the farmer’s men, and the guides and the red-cheeked squireens, her frock torn to ribbons, her hat lost in a ditch, her hair streaming down her back, and every inch of her, from her nose downwards, splashed and spattered with mire and clay.  What a spectacle for gods and men, guides and butcher boys.  And there she stood with the sun going down beyond Coniston Old Man, and a seven-mile walk between her and Fellside.

‘Poor Lady Mary!’ said Hammond, looking at her very kindly:  but Mary did not see that friendly glance, which betokened sympathy rather than scorn.  She sat silent and very red, with drooping eyelids, thinking her brother horribly cruel for thus publishing her foolishness.

‘Poor, indeed!’ exclaimed Maulevrier.  ’She came crawling home after dark, footsore and draggled, looking like a beggar girl, and as evil fate would have it, her ladyship, who so seldom goes out, must needs have been taking afternoon tea at the Vicarage upon that particular occasion, and was driving up the avenue as Mary crawled to the gate.  The storm that followed may be more easily imagined than described.’

‘It was years and years ago,’ expostulated Mary, looking very angry.  ‘Grandmother needn’t have made such a fuss about it.’