They turned from the drive on to the turf. Their horses tossed up their heads, and set off, unchecked, at a good pelting gallop, across the open park. On Helen’s cheek the wind blew cooling, strong, and kind. As if flowing from some fountain above, in an unseen unbanked river, down through the stiller ocean of the air, it seemed to bring to her a vague promise, almost a precognition, of peace--which, however, only set her longing after something--she knew not what--something of which she only knew that it would fill the longing the wind had brought her. The longing grew and extended--went stretching on and on into an infinite of rest. And as they still galloped, and the light-maddened colours sank into smoky peach, and yellow green, and blue gray, the something swelled and swelled in her soul, and pulled and pulled at her heart, until the tears were running down her face: for fear Bascombe should see them, she gave her horse the rein, and fled from him into the friendly dusk that seemed to grade time into eternity. Suddenly she found herself close to a clump of trees, which overhung the deserted house. She had made a great circuit without knowing it. A pang shot to her heart, and her tears ceased to flow. The night, silent with thought, held THAT also in its bosom! She drew rein, turned, and waited for Bascombe. “What a chase you’ve given me, Helen!” he cried, while yet pounding away some score of yards off. “A wild-goose one you mean, cousin?” “It would have been if I had thought to catch you on this ancient cocktail.” “Don’t abuse the old horse, George: he has seen better days. I would gladly have mounted you more to your mind, but you know I could not--except indeed I had given you my Fanny, and taken the old horse myself. I have ridden him.” “The lady ought always to be the better mounted,” returned George coolly. “For my part, I much prefer it, because then I need not be anxious about whether I am boring her or not: if I am, she can run away.” “You cannot suppose I thought you a bore to-night. A more sweetly silent gentleman none could wish for squire.” “Then it was my silence bored you.--Shall I tell you what I was thinking about?” “If you like. I was thinking how pleasant it would be to ride on and on into eternity,” said Helen. “That feeling of continuity,” returned George, “is a proof of the painlessness of departure. No one can ever know when he ceases to be, because then he is not; and that is how some men come to fancy they feel as if they were going to live for ever. But the worst of it is that they no sooner fancy it, than it seems to them a probable as well as delightful thing to go on and on and never cease. This comes of the man’s having no consciousness of ceasing, and when one is comfortable, it always seems good to go on. A child is never willing to turn from the dish of which he is eating to another. It is more he wants, not another.” “That is if he likes it,” said Helen.