, and all the rest far, far behind. This is
indeed glorious. I should like it to go on till dinnertime. How I hope
we shan't kill the fox!

"Take hold of his head, Kate," says my cousin, whose horse has just
blundered on to his nose through a gap. "Even White Stockings won't
last for ever, and this is going to be something out of the common."

"Forward!" is my reply as I point with my whip towards the lessening
pack, now a whole field ahead of us. "Forward!" If we hadn't been
going such a pace I could have sung for joy.

There is a line of pollarded willow trees down in that hollow, and the
hounds have already left these behind them; they are rising the
opposite ground. Again Frank Lovell looks anxiously back at me, but
makes no sign.

"We _must_ have it, Kate!" says John; "there's your best place, under
the tree; send him at it as hard as he can lay legs to the ground."

I ply my whip and loosen my reins in vain. White Stockings stops dead
short, and lowers his nose to the water, as if he wanted to drink; all
of a sudden the stream is behind me, and with a flounder and a
struggle we are safe over the brook. Not so Cousin John; I see him on
his legs on the bank, with his horse's head lying helplessly between
his feet, the rest of that valuable animal being completely submerged.

"Go along, Kate!" he shouts encouragingly, and again I speed after
Frank Lovell, who is by this time nearly a quarter of a mile ahead of
me, and at least that distance behind the hounds. White Stockings is
going very pleasantly, but the ground is now entirely on the rise, and
he indulges occasionally in a trot without any hint on my part; the
fences fortunately get weaker and weaker; the fields are covered with
stones, and are light, good galloping enough, but the rise gets
steeper every yard; round hills are closing in about us; we are now on
the Downs, and the pack is still fleeting ahead, like a body of hounds
in a dream, every moment increasing their distance from us, and making
them more and more indistinct. Frank Lovell disappears over the brow
of that hill, and I urge White Stockings to overtake my only
companion. He don't seem to go much faster for all that. I strike him
once or twice with my light riding-whip; I shake my reins, and he
comes back into a trot; I rise in my stirrup and rouse his energies in
every way I can think of. I am afraid he must be ill, the trot
degenerates to a jog, a walk; he carries his head further out fro