in question, a festive board was spread with all the eclat attending a dinner party.  Some hours previous a grand assemblage had gathered on the race course to witness a race between Captain Douglas’ mare Bess, and a celebrated racer introduced on the course by Lieutenant-Colonel Tilden, ridden by his groom.  Much betting had arisen on both sides.  Excitement ran high.  Bets were being doubled.  The universal din and uproar was growing loud, noisy and clamorous.  The band played spirited music, commencing with national airs, and, in compliment to an American officer, a guest of Sir Thomas Tilden, finished off with Hail Columbia.  Bess won the race.  His Excellency, Capt.  Douglas, in the capacity of aide-de-camp, Mr. Howe and Mr. James Douglas, with their friend, Lieutenant Trevelyan, stood on an eminence bordered by woods.  Here Sir Howard watched the afternoon’s sport with keen interest.  He saw in the assembly many features to be discountenanced.  None admired a noble animal better than Sir Howard, and none were more humane in their treatment.  Captain Douglas entered more into the sport of the proceedings.  His whole mind for the present was centered on the expectation of his noble little animal.  In gaining the race he was generous to the last degree.  Honor was the password in all his actions, while he gave his opponents that feeling which led them to thank him for an honorable defeat.

The occasion of Lt.  Col.  Tilden’s arrival was always hailed with a round of festivities.  This evening was the commencement, servants in livery were at every footstep.  An array of butlers and waiters was conspicuous arranging the different tables.  The grateful odors emitted from several passages presaged the elaborate dishes to be served.  The rattle of dishes, clinking of glasses, and drawing of corks, hinted of the viands in unlimited store.  While the above were conducted in the mess-room, many of the guests were as busy in their own private apartments making the necessary toilet for the reception.  In the foremost tier of rooms to the left, facing the river, on the ground floor, is the one occupied by Lieut.  Guy Trevelyan.  He is brushing out the waves of chestnut brown hair which, though short, shows a tendency to assert its nature despite the stern orders of military rule.  A shade passes over the brow of the youthful-looking soldier as he dons his scarlet uniform.  His thoughts are not at ease.  Guy Trevelyan feels a vague and unaccountable yearning—­an undefined feeling which is impossible to shake off.  “Well, Trevelyan,” soliloquized he; “you are a strange old fellow; such a state as this must not be indulged amidst the stir and hurly-burly of to-night.  I believe bedlam has broken loose.”  No wonder that Trevelyan thought so; for, at that moment, several noisy songs broke upon him—­the barking of at least a score of dogs, the clatter of steps upon the pavement, and the practising of fifes and drums.  Such a babel—­a distraction of noises and shouts