Greatheart

The early dusk of February was falling, together with a fine, drenching rain. The trees that over-hung the muddy lane were beating their stark branches together as though in despair over the general hopelessness of the outlook. The west wind that raced across the brown fields had the sharpness of snow in its train.

"We shall catch it before we've done," said Bathurst to his hunter.

Rupert the hunter, a dapple grey with powerful hindquarters, cocked a knowing ear in a fashion that Dinah always described as "his smile."

It had not been a good day for either of them. The meet had been at a considerable distance, there had been no run worth mentioning; and now that it was over they were returning, thoroughly tired, from the kennels.

Bathurst's pink coat clung to him like a sack, all streaked and darkened with rain. It had weathered a good many storms in its time, as its many varieties of tint testified; but despite this fact, its wearer never failed to look a sportsman and a gentleman. There was nothing of the vagabond about Bathurst, but he had the vagabond's facility for making himself at home wherever he went. He was never at a loss, never embarrassed, never affronted. He took life easily, as he himself put it; and on the whole he found it good.

Riding home at a jog-trot in that driving rain with the prospect of having to feed and rub down Rupert at the end of it before he could attend to his own needs was not a particularly entrancing prospect; but he faced it philosophically. After today the little girl would be at home, and she could do it for him again. She loved to wait on him hand and foot, and it really was a pleasure to let her.

He whistled cheerily to himself as he wended his leisurely way through the dripping lane that made the shortest cut to his home. It would be nice to have the little girl home again. Lydia was all very well--a good wife, as wives went--but there was no doubt about it that Dinah's presence made a considerable difference to his comfort. The child was quick to forestall his wants; he sometimes thought that she was even more useful to him than a valet would have been. He had missed her more than he would have dreamed possible.

Lydia had missed her too; he was sure of that. She had been peculiarly short of temper lately. Not that he ever took much notice; he was too used to her tantrums for that. But it certainly was more comfortable when Dinah was at home to bear the brunt of them. Yes, on the whole he was quite pleased that the little girl was coming back. It would make a difference to him in many ways.