And now, following the track of the hare by the little white blots of scattered paper, came the hounds. There were thirty of them, and they all came down the steep, ladder-like steps by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens. Bobbie and Phyllis and Peter counted them as they passed. The foremost ones hesitated a moment at the foot of the ladder, then their eyes caught the gleam of scattered whiteness along the line and they turned towards the tunnel, and, by ones and twos and threes and sixes and sevens, disappeared in the dark mouth of it. The last one, in a red jersey, seemed to be extinguished by the darkness like a candle that is blown out. “They don't know what they're in for,” said the foreman; “it isn't so easy running in the dark. The tunnel takes two or three turns.” “They'll take a long time to get through, you think?” Peter asked. “An hour or more, I shouldn't wonder.” “Then let's cut across the top and see them come out at the other end,” said Peter; “we shall get there long before they do.” The counsel seemed good, and they went. They climbed the steep steps from which they had picked the wild cherry blossom for the grave of the little wild rabbit, and reaching the top of the cutting, set their faces towards the hill through which the tunnel was cut. It was stiff work. “It's like Alps,” said Bobbie, breathlessly. “Or Andes,” said Peter. “It's like Himmy what's its names?” gasped Phyllis. “Mount Everlasting. Do let's stop.” “Stick to it,” panted Peter; “you'll get your second wind in a minute.” Phyllis consented to stick to it--and on they went, running when the turf was smooth and the slope easy, climbing over stones, helping themselves up rocks by the branches of trees, creeping through narrow openings between tree trunks and rocks, and so on and on, up and up, till at last they stood on the very top of the hill where they had so often wished to be. “Halt!” cried Peter, and threw himself flat on the grass. For the very top of the hill was a smooth, turfed table-land, dotted with mossy rocks and little mountain-ash trees. The girls also threw themselves down flat. “Plenty of time,” Peter panted; “the rest's all down hill.” When they were rested enough to sit up and look round them, Bobbie cried:-- “Oh, look!” “What at?” said Phyllis. “The view,” said Bobbie. “I hate views,” said Phyllis, “don't you, Peter?” “Let's get on,” said Peter. “But this isn't like a view they take you to in carriages when you're at the seaside, all sea and sand and bare hills. It's like the 'coloured counties' in one of Mother's poetry books.” “It's not so dusty,” said Peter; “look at the Aqueduct straddling slap across the valley like a giant centipede, and then the towns sticking their church spires up out of the trees like pens out of an inkstand. _I_ think it's more like “There could he see the banners Of twelve fair cities shine.” “I love it,” said Bobbie; “it's worth the climb.”