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Upon Venus’s arrival, great admiration was expressed at her symmetry and beauty; the grayness incident to her age having fallen upon her, as it sometimes does upon black greyhounds, in the form of small white spots, so that she appeared as if originally what the coursers call “ticked.” She was in excellent condition, and appeared to understand the design of the meeting as well as any one present, and to be delighted to find herself once more in the field of fame. Her competitor, a yellow dog called Smoaker, was let loose, and the whole party awaited in eager expectation of a hare.

“Soho!” cried John Cobham, and off the dogs sprang; Venus taking the turn, as he had foretold, running as true as in her first season, doing all the work, and killing the hare, after a course which, for any part Smoaker took in it, might as well have been single-handed.

“Look how she’s bringing the hare to my grandfather!” exclaimed Phoebe; “she always brings her game!”

And with the hare in her mouth, carefully poised by the middle of the back, she was slowly advancing towards her master, when a stranger, well dressed and well mounted, who had joined the party unperceived during the course, suddenly called “Venus!”

And Venus started, pricked up her ears as if to listen, and stood stock still.

“Venus!” again cried the horseman.

And Venus, apparently recognising the voice, walked towards the stranger, (who by this time had dismounted,) laid the hare down at his feet, and then sprang up herself to meet and return his caresses.

“Jesse! It must be Jesse Cliffe!” said Phoebe, in a tone which wavered between exclamation and interrogatory.

“It can be none other,” responded her grandfather. “I’d trust Venus beyond all the world in the matter of recognising an old friend, and we all know that except her old master and her young mistress, she never cared a straw for anybody but Jesse. It must be Jesse Cliffe, though to be sure he’s so altered that how the bitch could find him out, is beyond my comprehension. It’s remarkable,” continued he in an under tone, walking away with Jesse from the Belford party, “that we five (counting Venus and old Daniel) should meet just on this very spot–isn’t it? It looks as if we were to come together. And if you have a fancy for Phoebe, as your friend Sir Robert says you have, and if Phoebe retains her old fancy for you, (as I partly believe maybe the case,) why my consent sha’nt be wanting. Don’t keep squeezing my hand, man, but go and find out what she thinks of the matter.”

Five minutes after this conversation Jesse and Phoebe were walking together towards the house: what he said we have no business to inquire, but if blushes may be trusted, of a certainty the little damsel did not answer “No.”