"I'm glad to hear it. Content's the one thing I'd wish you—and wish myself. I can't see the way very clear yet. Let me know if ever you come by it."
"You! Why, you'm the most contented of any of us."
"Come and eat, and don't talk of what you know nought," said Mr. Baskerville.
They went through the back yard of the homestead presently, where a hot, distinctive odour of pigs saturated the air. As they passed by, some young, very dirty, pink porkers grunted with fat, amiable voices and cuddled to their lean mother, where she lay in a lair of ordure.
"That's content," explained Humphrey; "it belongs to brainless things, and only to them. I haven't found it among men and women yet, and I never count to. Rainbow gold in this world. Yet, don't mistake me, I'm seeking after it still."
"Why seek for it, if there's no such thing, uncle?"
"Well may you ask that. But the answer's easy. Because 'tis part of my character to seek for it, Rupert. Character be stronger than reason's self, if you can understand that. I seek because I'm driven."
"You might find it after all, uncle. There must be such a thing—else there'd be no word for it."
The older sighed.
"A young and hopeful fashion of thought," he said. "But you're out there. Men have made up words for many a fine, fancied thing their hearts long for; but the word is all—stillborn out of poor human hope."