As Helen neared each little grove her pulses shook and her heart beat.

Half a mile of rapid riding burned out the cold.

And all seemed glorious--the sailing moon, white in a dark-blue sky, the white, passionless stars, so solemn, so far away, the beckoning fringe of forest-land at once mysterious and friendly, and the fleet horses, running with soft, rhythmic thuds over the grass, leaping the ditches and the hollows, making the bitter wind sting and cut.

Coming up that park the ride had been long; going back was as short as it was thrilling.

In Helen, experiences gathered realization slowly, and it was this swift ride, the horses neck and neck, and all the wildness and beauty, that completed the slow, insidious work of years.