The snow had melted, except here and there, where it still lay in great patches; and on the distant hills, which still wore their pure white shroud.
The roads and lanes were fetlock-deep in mud, and the horses went splashing through pools of water, which spurted up into the faces of the riders.
There was only one lady besides Lydia Graham who intended to accompany the huntsmen, and this lady was the dashing young wife of a cavalry officer, who was spending a month's leave of absence with his relatives at Hallgrove.
The hunting-party rode out of the rectory gates in twos and threes. All had passed out into the high road before the rector himself, who was mounted on his new hunter.
To his extreme surprise he found a difficulty in managing the animal. He reared, and jibbed, and shied from side to side upon the broad carriage-drive, splashing the melted snow and wet gravel upon the rector's dark hunting-coat.
"So ho, 'Niagara,'" said Lionel, patting the animal's arched neck; "gently, boy, gently."
His voice, and the caressing touch of his hand seemed to have some little effect, for the horse consented to trot quietly into the road, after the rest of the party, and Lionel quickly overtook his friends. He rode shoulder by shoulder with Squire Mordaunt, an acknowledged judge of horseflesh, who watched the rector's hunter with a curious gaze for some minutes.
"I'll tell you what it is, Dale," he said, "I don't believe that horse of yours is a good-tempered animal."
"You do not?"
"No, there's a dangerous look in his eye that I don't at all like. See how he puts his ears back every now and then; and his nostrils have an ugly nervous quiver. I wish you'd let your man bring you another horse, Dale. We're likely to be crossing some stiffish timber to-day; and, upon my word, I'm rather suspicious of that brute you're riding."