ncrease of
bookmaking owners, and other tragic occurrences--he launched forth into a
jeremiad on the condition of things in general. Parliament, he thought,
especially now that members were paid, had lost its self-respect; the
towns had eaten up the country; hunting was threatened; the power and
vulgarity of the press were appalling; women had lost their heads; and
everybody seemed afraid of having any "breeding." By the time little Gyp
was Gyp's age, they would all be under the thumb of Watch Committees,
live in Garden Cities, and have to account for every half-crown they
spent, and every half-hour of their time; the horse, too, would be an
extinct animal, brought out once a year at the lord-mayor's show. He
hoped--the deuce--he might not be alive to see it. And suddenly he
added: "What do you think happens after death, Gyp?"

They were sitting on one of those benches that crop up suddenly in the
heart of nature. All around them briars and bracken were just on the
turn; and the hum of flies, the vague stir of leaves and life formed but
a single sound. Gyp, gazing into the wood, answered:

"Nothing, Dad. I think we just go back."

"Ah--My idea, too!"

Neither of them had ever known what the other thought about it before!

Gyp murmured:

"La vie est vaine
--Un peu d'amour,
Un peu de haine,
Et puis bonjour!"

Not quite a grunt or quite a laugh emerged from the depths of Winton,
and, looking up at the sky, he said:

"And what they call 'God,' after all, what is it? Just the very best you
can get out of yourself--nothing more, so far as I can see. Dash it, you
can't imagine anything more than you can imagine. One would like to die
in the open, though, like Whyte-Melville. But there's one thing that's
always puzzled me, Gyp. All one's life one's tried to have a single
heart. Death comes, and out you go! Then why did one love, if there's
to be no meeting after?"

"Yes; except for that, who would care? But does the wanting to meet make
it any more likely, Dad? The world couldn't go on without love; perhaps
loving somebody or something with all your heart is all in itself."

Winton stared; the remark was a little deep.

"Ye-es," he said at last. "I often think the religious johnnies are
saving their money to put on a horse that'll never run after all. I
remember those Yogi chaps in India. There they sat, and this jolly world
might rot round them for all they cared--they