blast of our coach-horn, warning them to get out of the way, it was even betting that they ran exactly where they were least expected, and did their utmost to immolate themselves under the feet of our team.

We arrived at the gate of the grand stand, and our party separated on their various quests, some to dress and weigh for the first race, some to do a little business at the pari-mutuel, and some to speculate in gloves with the fair ones of society. I went off quietly to have a final look at Rufus, and ascertain whether trainer and jockey still felt confident of winning. The horse was in some temporary stables near the paddock, and though nearly covered up with light clothing, his kind eye looked bright and clear, and there was a bloom on his coat, wherever it could be seen, which told of health and condition.

The trainer was with him, and was passing his practised hand lightly over the horse's legs and sinews, making sure that, even at the last minute, nothing had gone amiss. He raised his head as I came into the stable.

"He's all right, Captain Wilmot; we'll pull it off to-day for certain, bar accidents. That Calcutta horse is the only dangerous one of the lot; but I had a squint at him when he was cantering yesterday morning, and I don't think he can quite beat us, though he may give us a little trouble. I'll tell Tom Ainslie he need not pay attention to any of the others, but just keep his eye on Songster, and he'll beat him from the distance home, if he does not do it before."

This was reassuring after my big investment on the race, which lay a little heavy on my mind, and I strolled back to the stand, thinking what a good time I would

have if Rufus fulfilled the trainer's hopes. The company had pretty well all arrived, and I was just in time to see the Maharajah drive up, attended by an escort of the cavalry of his State, and to take my place among the group which were standing, hat in hand, to receive royalty.

Although the Bunkumpore meeting is not Epsom or Ascot, it is very smart for India; and many of the ladies make their appearance in a get-up which would be creditable anywhere, and which tells a tale of recently arrived boxes from Mrs Mason, Doucet, or Kate Reily. Then everybody is known to everybody else, by sight at any rate, so there is an infinite personal interest in every detail, which is not to be found in the gigantic gatherings at an English race meeting.

The upper part of the race stand is divided by a railing into two parts, one of which is occupied by the Maharajah, the Resident, the most distinguished visitors, and some of the bell-wethers of Bunkumpore society. The other contains the rank and file, but even here there are gradations of precedence; and while the ladies who stand most upon their dignity secure seats as near the royal enclosure as possible, those who are less important, or have less confidence, gather towards the other end, where, indeed, they have the best view of the racing, and generally succeed in having the best fun.

One of the smartest of the smart in the station was a certain Mrs Fortescue, who, after the demise of an old, and, according to all accounts, a by-no-means-to-be-regretted husband, had come to Bunkumpore to superintend the establishment of her bachelor brother, the remarkably well-paid chief-justice of the native State.

Still

young and very good-looking, she had swooped down on the local circles as a social free-lance, had utterly ruined and shattered many old standing devotions, and had enrolled the male devotees among her own personal followers. Once attached to Mrs Fortescue's train, she did not easily lose her hold on a worshipper, fascinating some by her wit, some by her beauty, and some by her genuine kindness and good-nature. that she really was fascinating and kind-hearted was proved by her popularity with women as well as with men; for, except among those whose standards she had lowered-who were certainly bitter enough against her—no one was more sought after as a friend by matron and maid.

And

Like every one else, I had fallen a victim to her attractions, and, after having been for some months on the best of terms with her, I was now supposed, I presume on account of length of service, to be among her prime favourites, and I had, no doubt, quite my fair share of her countenance and her smiles. Of course I had been freely chaffed in the regiment about my constant attendance on the charming widow; but chaff made little impression, as I knew that my devotion was not of a very absorbing character, and though I believed she liked me well enough, I was not sufficiently conceited to think that she looked upon our intimacy, however prononcé it might appear to the outside world, as more than a very strong Indian flirtation. She had taken up a strong position in the stand, with her back against one of the pillars, and was, as usual, the centre of a very lively group, which was occupied in getting up a series of mild sweepstakes on the day's racing.

For a month past, I must now

confess that I had felt quite a different kind of interest in another quarter. The wife and niece of the senior partner in Clover & Co., the shipping and general agency firm in Bombay, had come for change of air to Bunkumpore, and I had met them frequently. The aunt was not very interesting, but the niece was charming. All the bloom and freshness of a late arrival from England in her face, all the sweetness of an innocent and unsophisticated English girl in her manner, and all the grace and culture of an English home in her mind, made her very different from most of the spinsters of the station, whose very accentuated habits and rather free conversation might be amusing, but were hardly permanently attractive.

Mrs Fortescue had taken the two ladies under her protection since their arrival, and they were now with her party, settling themselves down to make the most of the day's pleasure and excitement.

I was quite sure that Mrs Fortescue was sufficiently sharp to have detected that I was épris with Kitty Clover, and I thought I traced a little malice in the way she called to me, and said, "Now, Captain Wilmot, you must give me some of your valuable time. Everybody tells me that you think your horse is going to win the Maharajah's Cup, and you must tell me if it is true, and whether I may safely back it to win. I don't want to have to wear cleaned gloves for the rest of the year."

"I think Rufus has a pretty good chance," I replied; "but there is nothing certain in racing, and I hope you have something better to depend on for your supply of gloves."

"Oh! old women like me have to look after every chance pretty carefully. I'm not like Miss

Clover, who has all the world before her, and indeed" (this sotto voce) "has it, I think, at her feet already."

Mrs Fortescue was evidently in a mischievous humour, so I thought it best to "save" myself as quickly as possible, and responded energetically to an imaginary summons from a friend in the crowd below, after reminding the party that the -th had a tent in the stand enclosure, where five o'clock tea was to be found.

The first race was being run as I got into the owners' stand, away from feminine distractions; but it had little interest for me, as no regimental horses were running. Then came a handicap hurdle-race, which was run by all the most moderate screws in the station, most of which either fell or bolted, while the three that actually managed to get past the post were widely separated, though each of their riders flogged and worked his hands with all the air of performing in a close finish.

The next race was to be the Maharajah's Cup, and I spent a very excited half-hour in attending the preliminaries of Rufus's performance. I was not fool enough to attempt to give any instructions myself, but let my trainer do all the talking, though when Tom Ainslie had been jerked into the saddle, I could not help giving him a parting adjuration to do his best.

One, two, three, four, five starters, including Rufus, filed out from the paddock, and galloped down the course. Certainly, so far, I did not see anything to be afraid of, and my horse looked as if he had them all at his mercy. They were trooping down to the starting-post, and I almost hoped that the Calcutta nag had gone wrong, and been scratched at the

last minute. No such luck, however. He had been saddled quietly at some outlying stables, and I saw a big bay coming past the stand at the slowest possible pace that could be dignified by the name of a canter. Even so, however, I could see that he looked even more dangerous than I had expected; and as I caught my trainer's eye, its expression was not very reassuring.

The general, who always officiated as judge, was just stepping into his box, and said as he passed-"Holloa, Wilmot! you're looking rather pale. I hope you've not been plunging. You've got the best of the chances, and I'll look out sharp for your colours."

"Thanks, general," I replied; "I'm sure you won't let your division be beaten from carelessness in your look-out':" and indeed I was sure that the kindhearted old soldier's best wishes were with me.

I got my glasses out just as a very cracked tinkle of a bell announced that a start had been made.

The field came sweeping past the stand, Rufus and the Calcutta horse lying third and fourth. Both were going very strong and well, and though their riders evidently paid more attention to each other than to the rest of the competitors, I fancied Rufus had a little the best of it. Round the end of the course, up the hill, the pace slackened a little; but the steam was put on again on the further side, and we could see that no one was losing any time. Rufus and his enemy had now only one horse in front of them, but neither seemed to have much advantage. At the last turn of the course, before they came into the straight run in, the race was lost to sight

behind some rocks; but when the horses again appeared, Rufus was leading, with the Calcutta horse about half a length behind. The remainder had been killed by the pace, and were quite out of it. At the distance Songster's rider made his effort, came level with Rufus, but no further, and the two came thundering along neck and neck. Tom Ainslie sat perfectly still, and I was sure he felt that he could shake off the other at the finish. I thought the race was as good as won, when a wretched pariah dog, excited probably by the noise, made a dash on to the course. Rufus, who was next the rails, saw him, swerved to one side, crossed his legs, and made a peck. He was in his stride again in a moment, but it was too late. He had lost nearly two lengths, and though he made a gallant struggle, and Tom Ainslie did all for him that a jockey could do, he could not get to the front in time, and the general's verdict was, "Beaten half a length."

I did feel disgusted. Such a crushing bit of ill fortune. That ill-fated dog, how I anathematised it; and I was not made more happy by Tom Ainslie saying, as I accompanied him into the paddock, "I had the race safe till the horse swerved, and even then I could have won, if we'd had another fifty yards to travel." There was nothing to do but to look as pleasant as possible under the circumstances, and hope for better luck another time.

Evidently a whisky-and-soda was both desirable and allowable, so I made my way to our tent, whither I found everybody thronging in search of tea and gossip. The first people I encountered were Mrs Fortescue and her party; and I certainly could not com

Mrs

plain of want of sympathy with my misfortunes. "Pity is akin to love;" and though the losing a race invokes only a modified form of pity, I thought Miss Clover's expressions of sorrow had more of sincerity and feeling than her mere words conveyed. I know that I shook off my troubles tolerably successfully under her sweet influence, and passed the remainder of the afternoon with her very pleasantly indeed. Fortescue had the Adjutant-General of the Presidency army in close attendance, so I had a fair excuse for not attaching myself to her as much as usual. But she was not a woman to overlook any defection from her service which she had not directly sanctioned, and she made a most undoubted moue for my benefit, as she drove away from the stand, having been carefully tucked in to her carriage by her general, while I was devoting myself to Miss Clover and her aunt.

One of the most important features of the Bunkumpore race week was the annual ball given by the European cavalry regiment at the station on the last day, by means of which we polished off all arrears of social civilities which were due from us to the local society. Neglected attendances at the very dull "at homes" given by the Burra Mem Sahibs of the cantonment, evasions of stiff dinner-parties, absence from the ladies' assemblages at the lawn-tennis ground in favour of the purely masculine delights of rackets at the club-all our social misdeeds and shortcomings of the year-were wiped out by the devotion and hospitality of this one festival; and when it was over, we were whitewashed from old sins, and started upon another

year with a renewed good character amongst the matrons and spinsters who had been entertained so freely. And even the most hypercritical person must have been forced to admit that our balls left nothing to be desired, that no essential quality was wanting, and that there was a finish about all the arrangements which could only be expected from a set of men who had unlimited supplies of the best appliances to work upon, and were little hampered by considerations of expense.

Let us in spirit squeeze ourselves in the front seat of the carriage, between the two cheery daughters, of Sir Christopher Lightbob, the much - bemedalled general commanding the division, and arrive at the scene of festivity.

As the fat Madrassee coachman turns the two slapping Australian horses off the maidan, down the road that leads to the mess compound, we dash between double lines of flaring torches, held high by white-clad natives, while the compound itself is quite sufficiently illuminated by many-coloured Chinese lanterns, distributed at every point where a lantern can be fixed.

At the main entrance to the mess-house, the smartest of Hussar guards of honour presents arms, while the regimental band plays a salute, and the officers of the -th, with the grizzled colonel at their head, stand ready to receive their guests. The party are greeted with much empressement, and the ladies are handed into an improvised bower, where two of the best-looking among the sergeants' wives superintend pins, combs, and hair-brushes, and aid in shaking out and rearranging the plumage of the fair ones.

Lady Lightbob is solemnly escorted by the colonel to a comfortable position at the end of the dancing-room, from which she can command the scene of the more active operations, and at the same time glance right and left into the adjoining rooms, which may present objects of interest to her inquiring eye. But though, from this post of vantage, she will doubtless see much in the course of the evening which will afford a theme for subsequent disquisition, it must not be supposed that all the most interesting incidents of the ball will pass before her gaze. We are not in chilly Europe, where the nights are few on which even the hardiest constitutions dare to expose themselves to the night air; but outside the mess bungalow an Asiatic moon is smiling serenely on a land where the calm soft air is scented with the warm fragrance of tropical plants, and woos with its tender kiss all who are wearied and heated with dance or revel, to enjoy its delights.

Every officer in a regiment has an equipment of two or three tents, and these are all arranged in the compound: comfortably carpeted, supplied with chairs and sofas, and just sufficiently lighted to offer the most tempting opportunities for causeries à deux,-opportunities which will be very freely utilised at theth's entertainment, though, as tent 'walls do not offer much resistance to the passage of sound, they must be conducted in the lowest of whispers, and possibly lose none

of their charm on that account.

Another rattle of presented arms and another salute tell of the Resident's arrival; and carriage after carriage-barouche, brougham, dog-cart, down to the humble bullock-gharry-discharge their loads