HEMLOCKHardcastle found no partridge in the long pasture that led to Draycott’s farm; but a hare got up under his feet as he neared the gate. Most shots came easily to Hardcastle, but from boyhood’s days a hare had roused always the same surprise, with its lopping stride that seemed slow and bulky, disguising a strong wind’s speed.
He missed now with the first barrel—at simple range—and puss got into a scrub of hazels that climbed the hillside. When she ran through it, brown against the grey rocks above, she was out of range to all but the most sanguine fancy. Hardcastle gave her the left barrel at a venture, and his heart warmed as he saw her sprawl every way at once and lie still against the rocks.
When he went to pick her up and found her shot cleanly through the head, he took it for
