So now she smiled fiercely to herself, thinking: "One pair of eyes the less to look along a gun and frustrate the despairing dash for home and little ones of a terrified little mother rabbit.

One hand that will never again change a soaring upward flight of spreading wings, into an agonised mass of falling feathers.

One chance to the good, for the noble stag, as he makes a brave run to join his hinds in the valley." Meanwhile the military-looking man had readjusted his eye-glasses and was holding the sheets of a closely written letter to the light.
"No," he said after a moment, "shooting parties are over.

There is nothing doing on the moors now.

They were potting bunnies." "Was he shooting ?" asked the girl.
"No," replied the owner of the letter, "and that seems such hard luck.
He had given up shooting altogether a year or two ago.