While Betty was dressing, with Aunt Tulip as lady’s maid, for the Red Plains party, the subject of Kettle was under discussion.

“That chile,” said Aunt Tulip, “went an’ hide hisself as soon as he got offen Mr. Fortescue’s hoss, an’ when I went to hunt fur him, if you believe me, Miss Betty, I foun’ him way up in the lof’ over the kitchen, trimblin’ like a leaf, an’ he wouldn’t come down ’twell he see Mr. Fortescue had done rode away. Then he tell Cesar he could milk, an’ he tooken the bucket an’ went out an’ milk ole Bossy as good as ever you see a cow milked in your life, an’ he brung in enough wood fur the whole house, an’ help Cesar to feed ole Whitey. That boy is mighty industr’ous.”

This was encouraging news, and induced Betty to think that Kettle would certainly be worth his keep.

At half past eight, Sally Carteret, in the big family carriage, came for Betty, and the two girls drove over to Red Plains. The ball was a replica of the dance at Marrowbone. It is not often in life that one can live over so much as a single hour of happiness, but Betty lived over a whole evening of joy. There was Fortescue, who claimed her hand ruthlessly for many dances, and his brother officers, who were scarcely less fascinating to Betty, and the University students, who assumed great intimacy upon short acquaintance, and old friends, with whom she had danced at dancing school. And there was the same merriment and the same music—Isaac Minkins and Uncle Cesar with their fiddles, and the colored youth with his “lap organ”—and the same kind of supper, the same kind of eggnog, and the same songs, and the same hearty Christmas spirit. The dance, though, did not last so late, as the hunt would begin early in the morning, and Betty was back at Holly Lodge and in bed by two o’clock. She had warned Aunt Tulip not to disturb herself so early to make a fire for Betty to dress by, but to send Kettle. At half past five, Kettle knocked at Betty’s door, and in two minutes a gorgeous fire called Betty from her bed. At six o’clock in the wintry morning, just as Betty was pulling on her gauntlets, she heard the tramp of horses’ hoofs under her window. Uncle Cesar had the side-saddle ready, and when Betty went downstairs, Fortescue was tightening the girths on Birdseye. As the Colonel was not there to watch, Fortescue, in the darkness, took Betty’s slender waist in his hands and swung her, by the modern fashion, into the saddle. Although it was still cold, the icy grip had moderated a little, and the ground was clear. Betty and Fortescue galloped along in the ghostly darkness, saying little, but with a delightful feeling of nearness and aloneness.

The day was breaking when they dismounted before the great portico at Bendover. The huntsmen were gathering rapidly, and there were several ladies to join the hunt. Negro boys were leading the steaming horses up and down, while the huntsmen passed into the hospitable house. Breakfast was smoking on the table, and there was a constant procession of hot coffee from the kitchen, with the inevitable five kinds of bread which Virginia hospitality imperatively requires for breakfast. There were so many dishes that the long table would not accommodate them, and there was a semicircle of oysters, sausage, deviled bones, and other substantials around the broad open hearth. The breakfast, though plentiful, was hurried, so that the start could be made before the sun dried the rime off the ground. Everybody laughed and talked and nobody listened. In half an hour they were crowding out upon the lawn to mount. As it was a Christmas hunt, every horse carried in his headstall a sprig of holly berries. Of the half-dozen girls present, each had her special cavalier, Fortescue, of course, being the escort of Betty on her new mount. The hounds, impatient to be off, yelped fretfully as they trotted about with their noses to the ground, sniffing eagerly. The horses, knowing what was up, were keen to stretch their legs. That day’s quarry was to be a very astute old red fox, which had devastated many chicken-coops in the smaller homesteads in the highlands, as the slightly rolling country beyond the river shore was called.

At last the hunt was off for a screeching run. About four miles from Bendover, Rattler, the Nestor of the pack of hounds, caught the scent, and, lifting his head, gave one short, loud yelp of triumph, and then dashed away, making straight for a straggling skirt of woods. There was a rough cart-road through it, and along this the huntsmen galloped, the dogs crying near to them. Fortescue rode close to Betty’s pommel. Birdseye maintained her character, and Betty thought she had never known so good a mount. It had been Fortescue’s expectation that Betty would be merely a spectator of the hunt, but with such a horse as Birdseye under her Betty rode straight and followed the hounds. The scent lay across the open fields and straggling woodlands, and was not particularly rough, but Betty took all that came in her way. Birdseye was naturally a beautiful jumper, and, like many horses, took to the sport with joy. Fortescue admired Betty’s lithe figure on the galloping horse, her delicate cheeks deeply flushed, and the little vagrant tendrils of hair, escaped from her filmy veil, streaming upon the air.

There was a roaring run of an hour, and then, in the midst of an open place in the woods, the scent was lost. The huntsmen pulled up, and the hounds, at fault, rushed whimpering from one spot to another. The horses were breathed, but Birdseye’s wind, like everything else about her, was admirable, and she was impatient to be off again. After half an hour of uncertainty, the hounds running hither and yon, the trail was again struck, and the whole pack, led by Rattler, went shrieking on their way, in full cry. There was another hour’s hard run, and then, close to a little farmhouse, and on the edge of the poultry yard where the red fox had found his prey, he met the doom of justice. The dogs closed in upon him, and although the fox, vicious to the last, snarled and bit furiously, the day of vengeance was at hand. At that moment every huntsman put spurs to his horse, that he might be first in at the death, but to Fortescue this honor came. The master of the hunt rode up and dismounted. There was no ceremony of throwing his whip upon the ground, for the foxes were really pests, and were meant to be destroyed. The scoundrel fox by that time lay dead upon the ground, and the master handed his knife to Fortescue, who cut off the brush, a splendid one, thick and long. Betty’s heart beat as she rode up with the others. The master was on the ground, patting and encouraging the dogs. Fortescue was also on the ground. The presentation of the brush could not take place until it had been washed and prepared, but a word or two and a look from Fortescue’s laughing eyes conveyed to Betty that she was to receive the honor.