You see John and Kitty as they cross the wide park towards the vista in the circling elms,—­she swinging her parasol, he carrying stiffly his grave canonical cane.  He still wears the long black coat buttoned at the throat, but the air of hieratic dignity is now replaced by, or rather it is glossed with, the ordinary passion of life.  Both are like children, infinitely amused by the colour of the grass and sky, by the hurry of the startled rabbit, by the prospect of the long walk; and they taste already the wild charm of the downs, seeing and hearing in imagination its many sights and sounds, the wild heather, the yellow savage gorse, the solitary winding flock, the tinkling of the bell-wether, the cliff-like sides, the crowns of trees, the mighty distance spread out like a sea below them with its faint and constantly dissolving horizon of the Epsom Hills.

“I never can cross this plain, Kitty, without thinking of the Dover cliffs as seen in mid Channel; this is a mere inland imitation of them.”

“I have never seen the Dover cliffs; I have never been out of England, but the Brighton cliffs give me an idea of what you mean.”

“On your side—­the Shoreham side—­the downs rise in a gently sloping ascent from the sea.”

“Yes, we often walk up there.  You can see Brighton and Southwick and Worthing.  Oh! it is beautiful!  I often go for a walk there with my friends, the Austen girls—­you saw them here at the Meet.”

“Yes, Mr Austen has a very nice property; it extends right into the town of Shoreham, does it not?”

“Yes, and right up to Toddington Mount, where we are going.  But aren’t you a little tired, John?  These roads are very steep.”

“Out of breath, Kitty; let’s stop for a minute or two.”  The country lay below them.  They had walked three miles, and Thornby Place and its elms were now vague in the blue evening.  “We must see one of these days if we cannot do the whole distance.”

“What? right across the downs from Shoreham to Henfield?”

“Well, it is not more than eight miles; you don’t think you could manage it?”

“I don’t know, it is more than eight miles, and walking on the downs is not like walking on the highroad.  Father thinks nothing of it.”

“We must really try it.”

“What would you do if I were to get so tired that I could not go back or forward?”

“I would carry you.”

They continued their climb.  Speaking of the Devil’s Dyke, Kitty said—­

“What! you mean to say you never heard the legend?  You, a Sussex man!”

“I have lived very little in Sussex, and I used to hate the place; I am only just beginning to like it.”

“And you don’t like the Jesuits any more, because they go in for matchmaking.”

“They are too sly for me, I confess; I don’t approve of priests meddling in family affairs.  But tell me the legend.”

“Oh, how steep these roads are.  At last, at last.  Now let’s try and find a place where we can sit down.  The grass is full of that horrid prickly gorse.”