by a not unparalleled freak of fortune, the master of all.  Carew had never fed his mares with human flesh, but there was a legend that he had rubbed a friend over with anise-seed, and offered that dainty morsel to his dogs.  The victim was snatched away again, however, by some officious underling, who justified his interference upon the ground that the hounds would have been spoiled by such an indulgence; and the Squire had pardoned him.  This was one of the stories about the Master of Crompton which divided the country into those who believed it and those who did not; but Walter Grange had told it to Richard as a characteristic fact.

The stables were indeed a marvel, not only of cleanliness and comfort, but, if it had been possible by any arts of daintiness to make them cox-combs, such would Carew’s horses have become.  They had looking-glasses in their own glossy coats, and yet it was not well for one of them to be an especial favorite with its master, for it more than once happened that he would ride such so often and so long that it fell under him, killed with kindness, overwhelmed with his oppressive favor.  On such occasions, if the Squire happened to have been as devoted as usual to his brandy flask, he would shed copious tears, which many instanced as a proof that he was neither selfish nor cold-hearted.

The kennels were of vast proportions, hedged in by high palisades, through the interstices of which many a black muzzle now protruded, sniffing like ill-tempered women, or uttering shrill whines of despair.  As Yorke, with his hands buried in his pockets, for they were cold, though his head was too well provided with clustering hair to be conscious of the absence of a hat, was contemplating this spectacle with cynical amusement, up strode the chaplain, wholesome and ruddy-looking.

“You are up betimes—­as Crompton hours go—­Mr. Yorke; I hope such good habits will not be undermined by evil associations.  How I envy you your constitution, to be able to face this November mist with a bare head!”

“Nay, parson,” rejoined the young man, “you must have risen early yourself to know that there was a mist.  It’s clear enough now all round.  I suppose our impatient friends yonder,” pointing to the kennel, where all the dogs, hearing the chaplain’s voice, were now in full chorus, “will have their will this morning?”

“Yes; it is this pack’s turn to hunt.”

“I wish, for your sake, Mr. Whymper, that there was only one pack,” observed Yorke, with good-natured earnestness.

“Ah, you are referring to that foolish talk about the living last night.  Poor Ryll is quite broken-hearted about it this morning; and, in fact, he did do me an ill turn, though, I am sure, without intending it.  It is the misfortune of a professed wit—­and especially of a poor one—­that he can not afford to be silent.”

“You take it more good-humoredly than I should,” said Yorke.  “I should be inclined to charge something for a joke made at my own expense, where the loss was so considerable.”