His spirits, which at first seemed to suffer some depression, took vigour once more from the air of the downs.  He put Oberon at a leap or two, then let the breeze sing in his ears as he was borne at a gallop over the summer land, golden with sunlight.  In spite of his still worn look, health was manifest in the upright vigour of his form, and in his eyes gleamed the untroubled joy of existence.  Hope just now was strong within him, a hope defined and pointing to an end attainable; he knew that henceforth the many bounding and voiceful streams of his life would unite in one strong flow onward to a region of orient glory which shone before him as the bourne hitherto but dimly imagined.  On, Oberon, on!  No speed that would not lag behind the fore-flight of a heart’s desire.  Let the stretch of green-shadowing woodland sweep by like a dream; let the fair, sweet meadow-sides smile for a moment and vanish; let the dark hill-summits rise and sink.  It is the time of youth and hope, of boundless faith in the world’s promises, of breathless pursuit.

Hilstead was gained long before lunch could be thought of.  Wilfrid rode on, and circled back towards the hostelry famous for chops about the hour of noon.  He put up his horse, and strayed about the village till his meal was ready; after he had eaten it he smoked a cigar among hollyhocks and sunflowers.  Then impatience possessed him.  He looked at his watch several times, annoyed to find that so little of the day was spent.  When he at last set forth again, it was to ride at walking pace in the direction of home.  He reached a junction of roads, and waited there for several minutes, unable to decide upon his course.  He ended by throwing the reins on Oberon’s neck.

‘Go which way you will,’ he said aloud.

Oberon paced forward to the homeward route.

‘So be it.  On, then!  An hour will bring us to The Firs.’

The house was all but reached, when Wilfrid caught a glimpse of a straw hat moving into a heath-clad hollow a hundred yards from the road.  He pressed on.  At the gate stood a gardener.

‘James,’ he cried, leaping down, ’take the horse to the stable, will you?’

And, instead of going up to the house, he walked back in the direction he had come till he reached the hollow in which the straw hat had disappeared.  Miss Hood sat on the ground, reading.  She was about to rise, but Wilfrid begged her not to move, and threw himself into a reclining posture.

‘I saw you as I rode past,’ he said, in a friendly way.  ’I suppose the twins are straying?’

‘They are at Greenhaws,’ was the reply, ’Mrs. Winter called for them immediately after lunch.  She will bring them back early in the evening.’

‘Ah!’

He plucked sprigs of heather.  Miss Hood turned to her book.

‘I’ve had a magnificent ride,’ Wilfrid began again.  ’Surely there is no country in England so glorious as this.  Don’t you enjoy it?’