"Get up, Starlight!" she cried.
Again the horn wound its call—clear, shrill, the soul note of the frosty morning. Frances turned her head; behind her were horsemen clattering down the way; on the road which met hers at the hill-top she could hear the sharp sounds of beating hoofs. The sun was rolling up the gray clouds on the horizon's edge, and the blue vault overhead, with slow reluctance, was throwing off the soft veil of fleecy clouds; the gray of the early autumn morning was changing to opalescent hues above the mountain tops.
The horsemen behind were closer, were abreast of her; she turned to see Lawson on one side, his fellow-student on the other.
"Going to ride?" Lawson called, with a mischievous glance at the heavy trap.
Frances shook her head, outwardly she was gay enough, inwardly she was fuming.
Lawson's mount was irreproachable, so were his clothes.
"Heard we went fox-hunting up here before he came," accused Frances mentally; "got them all ready for the occasion."
But in truth Lawson was not conscious at all. He had lost his head, as every one else was doing, at the clattering hoof-beats and the insistent clarion-callings of the horn and the wild, impatient bayings of the hounds.
On the plateau cresting the hill-top, the whole scene burst upon his view; roads from many directions met and intersected beneath the oaks, on all of them hunters were hurrying—women, men, dogs. Beyond showed the white façade of Orange Grove, the fence before the lawn lined with carriages.
Frances was earlier than she thought. She turned in the road behind the master of the hounds, who, grown too stout for riding, had a nag and a buggy could race on any mountain-road. He leaned out and called back to her.