of Knowle park, and Frank Foster of the Elms, and Mr Vellem Deeds the dashing attorney of the High Street, and the Rev Mr Green, and the Rev Mr Browne, and the Rev Mr White, all of whom as in duty bound, attended the steps of the three Miss Proudies.

‘Did you ever ride at the quintain, Mr Foster?’ said Miss Thorne, as she walked with her party, across the lawn.

‘The quintain?’ said young Foster, who considered himself a dab at horsemanship. ‘Is it a sort of gate, Miss Thorne?’

Miss Thorne had to explain the noble game she spoke of, and Frank Foster had to own that he never had ridden at the quintain.

‘Would you like to come and see?’ said Miss Thorne. ‘There’ll be plenty here without you, if you like it.’

‘Well, I don’t mind,’ said Frank; ‘I suppose the ladies can come too.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Thorne; ‘those who like it; I have no doubt they’ll go to see your prowess, if you’ll ride, Mr Foster.’

Mr Foster looked down at a most unexceptionable pair of pantaloons, which had arrived from London only the day before. They were the very things, at least he thought so, for a picnic of fête champetre; but he was not prepared to ride in them. Nor was he more encouraged than had been Mr Thorne, by the idea of being attacked from behind by the bag of flour which Miss Thorne had graphically described to him.

‘Well, I don’t know about riding, Miss Thorne,’ said he; ‘I fear I’m not quite prepared.’

Miss Thorne sighed, but said nothing further. She left the toxophilites to their bows and arrows, and returned towards the house. But as she passed by the entrance to the small park, she thought that she might at any rate encourage the yeomen by her presence, as she could not induced her more fashionable guests to mix with them in their many amusements.

Accordingly she once more betook herself to the quintain post. Here to her great delight she found Harry Greenacre ready mounted, with his pole in his hand, and a lot of comrades standing round him, encouraging him to the assault. She stood at a little distance and nodded to him in token of her good pleasure.

‘Shall I begin, ma’am?’ said Henry fingering his long staff in a rather awkward way, while his horse moved uneasily beneath him, not accustomed to a rider armed with such a weapon.

‘Yes, yes,’ said Miss Thorne, standing triumphant as the queen of beauty, on an inverted tub which some chance had brought hither from the farm–yard.

‘Here goes then,’ said Harry as he wheeled his horse round to get the necessary momentum of a sharp gallop. The quintain post stood right before him, and the square board at which he was to tilt was fairly in the way. If he hit that duly in the middle, and maintained his pace as he did so, it was calculated that he would be carried out of reach of the flour bag, which, suspended at the other end of the cross–bar on the post, would swing round when the board was struck. It was also calculated that if the rider did not maintain his pace, he would get a blow from the flour bag just at the back of his head, and bear about him the signs of his awkwardness to the great amusement of the lookers–on.

Harry Greenacre did not object to being powdered with flour in the service of his mistress, and therefore gallantly touched his steed with his spur, having laid his lance in rest to the best of his ability. But his ability in this respect was not great, and his appurtenances probably not very good; consequently, he struck his horse with his pole unintentionally on the side of the head as he started. The animal swerved and shied, and galloped off wide of the quintain. Harry well accustomed to manage a horse, but not to