be, it would still be impossible for it to have officers employed except at what may be called centres of cruelty; and even in these much might go on behind the officer's back. If the public will supply information of acts of cruelty committed under their eyes and within their knowledge, they are to that extent doing the work of an officer. The Society issues forms, setting out the kind of particulars which should be forwarded to them; and it undertakes to make inquiry into every case so brought to its knowledge, and, if sufficient evidence is forthcoming, to prosecute the offender, without expense to the complainant or his witnesses. It often happens, however, that complaints of this kind have to be passed over because those who make them will not appear to substantiate them before a magistrate. Anyone who acts in this way is really little better than an accomplice in the cruelty of which he complains. He knows or believes that it has been committed, but he will not take the trifling trouble, or undergo the trifling annoyance, of repeating in the witness-box what he has already written to the Society. A great number of additional convictions might be obtained if the public were more active in reporting cases to the Society, and a still wider effect would be produced by the general sense of being under surveillance which would be created in those who have the care of animals. There would be little overt cruelty in a street or village in which an officer of the Society was known to be on duty; and if private persons would be at the pains of noting down all cases of cruelty which pass under their eye, the offenders would come in time to understand that every passer-by might be as good as an officer of the Society for their particular benefit. Again, if the Society were better supplied with money, it would be able to combine its old and its present methods of procedure. It is a decided gain that its officers should now be employed almost exclusively in following up information furnished by private persons; but it would be better still if it were able to employ its existing staff in this manner, and to maintain an additional staff as a patrol in places where acts of cruelty are especially common. The presence of a dozen active officers in the streets of London, for example, would soon make a visible difference in the condition and treatment of the horses employed there; and if the money were to be had, this work might at once be done, without the ordinary work of the Society being left undone. With larger funds, the Society might also employ officers for a given time in typical districts. A considerable stimulus might be given to individual energy if half-a-dozen competent officers were set to work for six months in a mining district, on the towing-paths of some canal-system, or in the neighbourhood of a group of seaside towns. Persons specially interested in the prevention of particular forms of cruelty might contribute to special funds set apart for this purpose. Lamentations over the amount of cruelty practised on animals are common enough; what is needed to make them either sincere or useful is a serious determination on the part of those who utter them that nothing shall be wanting on their part to make the law effectual.

Young Brown.

BOOK V.

CHAPTER III.

BEAUMANOIR.

IEUTENANT BROWN was well received by the Duke of Courthope when he presented his letters of introduction. His Grace had lived more and more in the country of late years, and his place, though very stately, was somewhat dull. The arrival of a stranger properly introduced would have been welcome therefore at any time, and the visit of an officer from the seat of war was an event which interested all the county.

The Duke of Courthope, like most provincial magnates, was fond of early news and exclusive information, and he generally contrived to obtain it, for the world is very eager to convey both verbal and epistolary information to a nobleman of his rank. No one was sooner acquainted with the changing events of current history. He knew the very latest movements in party politics, and as they were often false movements, made by persons who had to retrace their steps, he had rather a less accurate idea of the state of affairs than the outside public. He was present at all the false starts for power, so that when the race was run and won, nobody was more surprised at the result than himself. He had around him at Lieutenant Brown's arrival the asual party which assembles at ducal palaces when pheasant shooting begins. They were mostly good shots, for his Grace, who sold his game by contract to a London poulterer, could not afford to have his birds knocked about, and did not like to have them made wild by random firing. There was a brace of parliamentary colonels, who always killed with their right and left barrels. There was a local banker,

who had an absurd resemblance to the Duke in dress, manners, and whiskers. There was a sprinkling of minor barons, a few official dependents who had prospered under the shadow of the great house, an Italian singer and his wife to amuse the evenings, and Lady Overlaw with her aunt the Countess of Clanmore to do the honours.

The Duke took a fancy to the young Indian soldier from the first; perhaps because his manners were perfectly free from either embarrassment or self-assertion. The Lieutenant never made his presence felt oppressively, for he had the secret of amusing himself without getting in other people's way. His voice was never heard at unseasonable times, and he was cheerful without being boisterous or brilliant.

"Come, Captain Brown, and shoot beside me," the Duke would say to him in high good humour, and giving him brevet rank by courtesy. His Grace liked a young man who never missed his bird, never fired first, and picked up the outsiders with unerring aim. The boy's silent, pleasant laughter and deferential manners won him, and while his Grace was amusing himself, he thought he was paying off his son's debt of gratitude very handsomely, so that his conscience approved him not a little.

There was also, however, a subtler influence than either of them could have explained, had they been interrogated, which drew those two together. That splendid Peer and the village lad who had showed such unusual qualities when put to the test had many thoughts in unison, and the speech of either found a natural echo in the other's mind. They both felt as soldiers, and despised trade; they had both an innate love of grandeur; they had even some physical peculiarities in common. Both were straight and tall, with a chest rather deep than broad, and admirably formed for exertion; but the face of William Brown was one which had not been seen in the Courthope family for nearly two centuries. It was frank and open during an ordinary conversation and when he was engaged in the common concerns of life. His smile was almost as innocent and winning as the Duke's own, and made all his countenance sparkle when lit up with it. But in moments when his thoughts were concentrated upon any serious subject, his heavy brows closed like a horseshoe, and his look was earnest and intense. A very grave face it was too in repose, very fixed and determined. The lips, neither so full nor so delicate in their outline as the Duke's, were firmly shut, and the massive jaw seemed to lock them in with a clasp of iron. The Duke's eyes were of an uncertain colour, changing in the light, and had naturally a mournful, almost an appealing look, though they had latent fires in them. The eyes of William Brown were deep set, steady, and passionless, rather unforgiving eyes, with gleams like the flash of steel in them when he was roused to anger. But his feelings were not upon the surface. It was not easy to offend him; and in any quarrel he would be likely to have right on his side, whereas the Duke was for ever in the wrong. They would not have made bad types of success and failure. An observer would have at once perceived that the Duke of Courthope was unlucky,