Chapter 3

Who will buy pansies?There are her eyes,Dew-soft and tender,Love in them lies.Who will buy roses?There are her lips,And there is the nectarThat Cupidon sips.Who will buy lilies?There are her cheeks,And there the shy blushingThat maidhood bespeaks.'Meenie, Love Meenie,What must one pay?''Good stranger, the market'sNot open to-day!'He looked at the verses again and again; and the longer he looked at them the less he liked them—he scarcely knew why. Perhaps they were a little too literary? They seemed to lack naturalness and simplicity; at all events, they were not true to Meenie; why should Meenie figure as a flippant coquette? And so he threw them away and turned to his books—not the scientific ones—to hunt out something that was like Meenie. He came near it in Tannahill, but was not quite satisfied. A verse or two in Keats held his fancy for a moment. But at last he found what he wanted in Wordsworth—'A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye;—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.'Yes; that was liker Meenie—who 'dwelt among the untrodden ways.'CHAPTER V.A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING.Miss Carry Hodson returned from Paris in a very radiant mood; she had had what she called a real good time, and everything connected with the wedding had gone off most successfully. Her dress, that she had ordered long before she came to the Highlands, was a perfect fit; Lily Selden made the most charming and beautiful of brides; and no less a person than a prince (rather swarthy, and hailing from some mysterious region east of the Carpathians) had proposed the health of the bridesmaids, and had made especial mention of the young ladies who had travelled long distances to be present on the auspicious occasion.However, on the morning after her return to Inver-Mudal her equanimity was somewhat dashed. When she went along the passage to the little hall—to see what the morning was like outside—she found waiting there a respectable-looking elderly Highlander, with grizzled locks, who touched his cap to her, and who had her waterproof over his arm. This last circumstance made her suspicious; instantly she went back to her father.'Who is that man?' she asked.'What man?''Why, an old man, who is waiting there, and he has got my waterproof slung over his arm.''Well, I suppose that is the new gillie.''Isn't Ronald going down?' she said, with very evident disappointment.'Of course not,' her father said, with some sharpness. 'I think you have taken up enough of his time. And just now, when he is getting ready to go away, do you think I could allow him to waste day after day in attending to us? Seems to me it would be more to the point if you put your small amount of brain into devising some means of squaring up with him for what he has done already.''Oh, very well,' she said—or rather, what she did really say was 'Oh, vurry well'—and the pretty, pale, attractive face resumed its ordinary complacency, and she went off to make friends with the new gillie. She was on good terms with the old Highlander in about a couple of minutes; and presently they were on their way down to the loch, along with the lad John. Her father was to follow as soon as he had finished his letters.But she was now to discover, what she had never discovered before, that salmon-fishing on a loch is a rather monotonous affair, unless the fish are taking very freely indeed. For one thing, the weather had settled down into a fine, clear, spring-like calm and quiet that was not at all favourable to the sport. It was very beautiful, no doubt; for sometimes for hours together the lake would be like a sheet of glass—the yellow shores and purple birch-woods all accurately doubled, with nearer at hand the faint white reflections of the snow-peaks in the north stretching out into the soft and deep blue; and when a breath of wind, from some unexpected point of the compass, began to draw a sharp line of silver between earth and water, and then came slowly across the loch to them, ruffling out that magic inverted picture on its way, the breeze was deliciously fresh and balmy, and seemed to bring with it tidings of the secret life that was working forward to the leafiness of summer. They kept well out into the midst of this spacious circle of loveliness, for old Malcolm declared they would be doing more harm than good by going over the fishing-ground; so she had a sufficiently ample view of this great panorama of water and wood and far mountain-slopes. But it grew monotonous. She began to think of Paris, and the brisk, busy days—a hurry of gaiety and pleasure and interest using up every possible minute. She wished she had a book—some knitting—anything. Why, when Ronald was in the boat—with his quick sarcastic appreciation of every story she had to tell, or every experience she had to describe—there was always enough amusement and talking. But this old man was hopeless. She asked him questions about his croft, his family, his sheep and cows; and he answered gravely; but she took no interest in his answers, as her father might have done. She was unmistakably glad to get ashore for lunch—which was picturesque enough, by the way, with that beautiful background all around; and neither her father nor herself was in any hurry to break up the small picnic-party and set to work again.Nor did they do much better in the afternoon—though her father managed to capture a small eight-pounder; and so, in the evening, before dinner, she went along to Ronald to complain. She found him busy with his books; his gun and cap and telescope lying on the table beside him, showed that he had just come in.'Ay,' said he, 'it's slow work in weather like this. But will ye no sit down?' and he went and brought her a chair.'No, I thank you,' said she; 'I came along to see if you thought there was likely to be any change. Is your glass a good one?''First-rate,' he answered, and he went to the small aneroid and tapped it lightly. 'It was given me by a gentleman that shot his first stag up here. I think he would have given me his head, he was so pleased. Well, no, Miss Hodson, there's not much sign of a change. But I'll tell ye what we'll do, if you're tired of the loch, we'll try one or two of the pools on the Mudal.''You mean the river down there?''There's not much hope there either—for the water's low the now; but we might by chance get a little wind, or there are some broken bits in the stream—'But you mean with a fly—how could I throw a fly?' she exclaimed.'Ye'll never learn younger,' was the quiet answer. 'It there's no change to-morrow I'll take ye up the river myself—and at least ye can get some practice in casting——''Oh no, no,' said she hurriedly, 'thank you very much, but I must not take up your time——''I'm no so busy that I cannot leave the house for an hour or two,' said he—and she understood by his manner that he was 'putting his foot down,' in which case she knew she might just as well give in at once. 'But I warn ye that it's a dour river at the best, and not likely to be in good ply; however, we might just happen on one.' And then he added, by way of explanation, 'If we should, it will have to be sent to Lord Ailine, ye understand.''Why?''Because the river doesna belong to your fishing; it goes with the shooting.''Oh,' said she, somewhat coldly. 'And so, when Lord Ailine gives any one a day's fishing he claims whatever fish they may catch?''When his lordship gives a day's fishing he does not; but when the keeper does—that's different,' was the perfectly simple and respectful answer.'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said she hastily, and sincerely hoping she had said nothing to wound his feelings. Apparently she had not, for he proceeded to warn her about the necessity of her putting on a thick pair of boots; and he also gently hinted that she might wear on her head something less conspicuous than the bright orange Tam o' Shanter of which she seemed rather fond.Accordingly, next morning, instead of sending him a message that she was ready, she walked along to the cottage, accoutred for a thorough stiff day's work. The outer door was open, so she entered without ceremony; and then tapped at the door of the little parlour, which she proceeded to open also. She then found that Ronald was not alone; there was a young man sitting there, who instantly rose as she made her appearance. She had but a momentary glimpse of him, but she came to the conclusion that the gamekeepers in this part of the world were a good-looking race, for this was a strongly-built young fellow, keen and active, apparently, with a rather pink and white complexion, closely-cropped head, bright yellow moustache, and singularly clear blue eyes. He wore a plain tweed suit; and as he rose he picked up a billycock hat that was lying on the table.'I'll see you to-night, Ronald,' said he, 'I'm going off by the mail again to-morrow.'And as he passed by Miss Carry, he said, very modestly and respectfully—'I hope you will have good sport.''Thank you,' said she, most civilly, for he seemed a well-mannered young man, as he slightly bowed to her in passing, and made his way out.Ronald had everything ready for the start.'I'm feared they'll be laughing at us for trying the river on so clear a day,' said he, as he put his big fly-book in his pocket. 'And there's been no rain to let the fish get up.''Oh I don't mind about that,' said she, as he held the door open, and she went out, 'it will be more interesting than the lake. However, I've nothing to say against the lake fishing, for it has done such wonders for my father. I have not seen him so well for years. Whether it is the quiet life, or the mountain air, I don't know, but he sleeps perfectly, and he has entirely given up the bromide of potassium. I do hope he will take the shooting and come back in the autumn.''His lordship was saying there were two other gentlemen after it,' remarked Ronald significantly.'Who was saying?''His lordship—that was in the house the now when ye came in.''Was that Lord Ailine?' she said—and she almost paused in their walk along the road.'Oh yes.''You don't say! Why, how did he come here?''By the mail this morning.''With the country people?''Just like anybody else,' he said.'Well, I declare! I thought he would have come with a coach and outriders—in state, you know——''What for?' said he impassively. 'He had no luggage, I suppose, but a bag and a waterproof. It's different in the autumn, of course, when all the gentlemen come up, and there's luggage and the rifles and the cartridge-boxes—then they have to have a brake or a waggonette.''And that was Lord Ailine,' she said, half to herself; and there was no further speaking between them until they had gone past the Doctor's cottage and over the bridge and were some distance up 'the strath that Mudal laves'—to quote her companion's own words.'Now,' said he, as he stooped and began to put together the slender grilse-rod, 'we'll just let ye try a cast or two on this bit of open grass—and we'll no trouble with a fly as yet.'He fastened on the reel, got the line through the rings, and drew out a few yards' length. Then he gave her the rod; showed her how to hold it; and then stood just behind her, with his right hand covering hers.'Now,' said he, 'keep your left hand just about as steady as ye can—and don't jerk—this way—Of course it was really he who was making these few preliminary casts, and each time the line ran out and fell straight and trembling on the grass.'Now try it yourself.'At first she made a very bad job of it—especially when she tried to do it by main force; the line came curling down not much more than the rod's length in front of her, and the more she whipped the closer became the curls.'I'm afraid I don't catch on quite,' she said, unconsciously adopting one of her father's phrases.'Patience—patience,' said he; and again he gripped her hand in his and the line seemed to run out clear with the gentlest possible forward movement.And then he put out more line—and still more and more—until every backward and upward swoop of the rod, and every forward cast, was accompanied by a 'swish' through the air. This was all very well; and she was throwing a beautiful, clean line; but she began to wonder when the bones in her right hand would suddenly succumb and be crunched into a jelly. The weight of the rod—which seemed a mighty engine to her—did not tell on her, for his one hand did the whole thing; but his grip was terrible; and yet she did not like to speak.'Now try for yourself,' said he, and he stepped aside.'Wait a minute,' she said—and she shook her hand, to get the life back into it.'I did not hurt you?' said he, in great concern.'We learn in suffering what we teach in song,' she said lightly. 'If I am to catch a salmon with a fly-rod, I suppose I have got to go through something.'She set to work again; and, curiously enough, she seemed to succeed better with the longer line than with the short one. There was less jerking; the forward movement was more even; and though she was far indeed from throwing a good line, it was very passable for a beginner.'You know,' said she, giving him a good-humoured hint, 'I don't feel like doing this all day.''Well, then, we'll go down to the water now,' said he, and he took the rod from her.They walked down through the swampy grass and heather to the banks of the stream; and here he got out his fly-book—a bulged and baggy volume much the worse for wear. And then it instantly occurred to her that this was something she could get for him—the most splendid fly-book and assortment of salmon flies to be procured in London—until it just as suddenly occurred to her that he would have little use for these in Glasgow. She saw him select a smallish black and gold and crimson-tipped object from that bulky volume; and a few minutes thereafter she was armed for the fray, and he was standing by watching.Now the Mudal, though an exceedingly 'dour' salmon-river, is at least easy for a beginner to fish, for there is scarcely anywhere a bush along its level banks. And there were the pools—some of them deep and drumly enough in all conscience; and no doubt there were salmon in them, if only they could be seduced from their lair. For one thing, Ronald had taken her to a part of the stream where she could not, in any case, do much harm by her preliminary whippings of the water.She began—not without some little excitement, and awful visions of triumph and glory if she should really be able to capture a salmon by her own unaided skill. Of course she caught in the heather behind her sometimes; and occasionally the line would come down in a ghastly heap on the water; but then again it would go fairly out and over to the other bank, and the letting it down with the current and drawing it across—as he had shown her in one or two casts—was a comparatively easy matter. She worked hard, at all events, and obeyed implicitly—until alas! there came a catastrophe.'A little bit nearer the bank if you can,' said he; 'just a foot nearer.'She clenched her teeth. Back went the rod with all her might—and forward again with all her might—but midway and overhead there was a mighty crack like that of a horse-whip; and calmly he regarded the line as it fell on the water.'The fly's gone,' said he—but with not a trace of vexation.'Oh, Ronald, I'm so sorry!' she cried, for she knew that these things were expensive, even where they did not involve a considerable outlay of personal skill and trouble.'Not at all,' said he, as he quietly sate down on a dry bunch of heather and got out his book again. 'All beginners do that. I'll just show ye in a minute or two how to avoid it. And we'll try a change now.'Indeed she was in no way loth to sit down on the heather too; and even after he had selected the particular Childers he wanted, she took the book, and would have him tell her the names of all the various flies, which, quite apart from their killing merits, seemed to her beautiful and interesting objects. And finally she said—'Ronald, my arms are a little tired. Won't you try a cast or two? I am sure I should learn as much by looking on.'He did as he was bid; and she went with him; but he could not stir anything. The river was low; the day was clear; there was no wind. But at last they came to a part of the stream where there was a dark and deep pool, and below that a wide bed of shingle, while between the shingle and the bank was a narrow channel where the water tossed and raced before breaking out into the shallows. He drew her a little bit back from the bank and made her take the rod again.'If there's a chance at all, it's there,' he said. 'Do ye see that stone over there?—well, just try to drop the fly a foot above the stone, and let it get into the swirl.'She made her first cast—the line fell in a tangled heap about three yards short.'Ye've got out of the way of it,' said he, and he took the rod from her, let out a little more line, and then gave it to her again, standing behind her, with his hand over-gripping hers.'Now!'The fly fell a foot short—but clean. The next cast it fell at the precise spot indicated, and was swept into the current, and dragged slowly and jerkily across. Again he made the cast for her, with the same negative result; and then he withdrew his hand.'That's right—very well done!' he said, as she continued.'Yes, but what's the use when you have tried——'She had scarcely got the words out when she suddenly found the line held tight—and tighter—she saw it cut its way through the water, up and towards the bank of the pool above—and down and down was the point of the rod pulled until it almost touched the stream. All this had happened in one wild second.'Let the line go!—what are ye doing, lassie?' he cried. The fact was that in her sudden alarm she had grasped both line and rod more firmly than ever; and in another half second the fish must inevitably have broken something. But this exclamation of his recalled her to her senses—she let the line go free—got up the rod—and then waited events—with her heart in her mouth. She had not long to wait. It very soon appeared to her as if she had hooked an incarnate flash of lightning; for there was nothing this beast did not attempt to do; now rushing down the narrow channel so close to the bank that a single out-jutting twig must have cut the line; now lashing on the edge of the shallows; twice jerking himself into the air; and then settling down in the deep pool, not to sulk, but to twist and tug at the line in a series of angry snaps. And always it was 'Oh, Ronald, what shall I do now?' or 'Ronald, what will he do next?''You're doing well enough,' said he placidly. 'But it will be a long fight; and ye must not let him too far down the stream, or he'll take ye below the foot bridge. And don't give him much line; follow him, rather.'She was immediately called on to act on this advice; for with one determined, vicious rush, away went the salmon down the stream—she after him as well as her woman's skirts would allow, and always and valorously she was keeping a tight strain on the pliant rod. Alas! all of a sudden her foot caught in a tuft of heather—down she went, prone, her arms thrown forward so that nothing could save her. But did she let go the rod? Not a bit! She clung to it with the one hand; and when Ronald helped her to her feet again, she had no thought of herself at all—all her breathless interest was centred on the salmon. Fortunately that creature had now taken to sulking, in a pool farther down; and she followed him, getting in the line the while.'But I'm afraid you're hurt,' said he.'No, no.'Something was tickling the side of her face. She shifted the grip of the rod, and passed the back of her right hand across her ear; a brief glance showed her that her knuckles were stained with blood. But she took no further heed; for she had to get both hands on the rod again.'She has pluck, that one,' Ronald said to himself; but he said nothing aloud, he wanted her to remain as self-possessed as possible.'And what if he goes down to the footbridge, Ronald?' she said presently.'But ye must not let him.''But if he will go?''Then ye'll give me the rod and I'll take it under the bridge.'The fish lay there as heavy and dead as a stone; nothing they could do could stir him an inch.'The beast has been at this work before,' Ronald said. 'That jagging to get the hook out is the trick of an old hand. But this sulking will never do at all.'He left her and went farther up the stream to the place where the river ran over the wide bed of shingle. There he deliberately walked into the water—picking up a few pebbles as he went—and, with a running leap, crossed the channel and gained the opposite bank. Then he quickly walked down to within a yard or two of the spot where the 'dour' salmon lay.She thought this was very foolish child's play that he should go and fling little stones at a fish he could not see. But presently she perceived that he was trying all he could to get the pebbles to drop vertically and parallel with the line. And then the object of this device was apparent. The salmon moved heavily forward, some few inches only. Another pebble was dropped. This time the fish made a violent rush up stream that caused Miss Carry's reel to shriek; and off she set after him (but with more circumspection this time as regards her footing), getting in the line as rapidly as possible as she went. Ronald now came over and joined her, and this was comforting to her nerves.Well, long before she had killed that fish she had discovered the difference between loch-fishing and river-fishing; but she did kill him in the end; and mightily pleased she was when she saw him lying on the sere wintry grass. Ronald would have had her try again; but she had had enough; it was past lunch time, and she was hungry; moreover, she was tired; and then again she did not wish that he should waste the whole day. So, when she had sate down for a while, and watched him tie the salmon head and tail, they set out for the village again, very well content; while as for the slight wound she had received by her ear catching on a twig of heather when she fell, that was quite forgotten now.'And ye are to have the fish,' said he. 'I told his lordship this morning you were going to try your hand at the casting; and he said if you got one you would be proud of it, no doubt, and ye were to keep it, of course.''Well, that is very kind; I suppose I must thank him if I see him?'And she was very curious to know all about Lord Ailine; and why he should come to Inver-Mudal merely for these few hours; and what kind of people he brought with him in the autumn. He answered her as well as he could; and then they went on to other things—all in a very gay and merry mood, for he was as proud as she was over this achievement.At the same moment Meenie Douglas was in her own little room, engaged on a work of art of a not very ambitious kind. She had lying before her on the table a pencil-sketch in outline of such features of the landscape as could be seen from the window—the loch, the wooded promontories, Ben Clebrig, and the little clump of trees that sheltered the inn; and she was engaged in making a smaller copy of this drawing, in pen and ink, on a paper-cutter of brown wood. She was not much of an artist, perhaps; but surely these simple outlines were recognisable; and if they were to be entitled 'A Souvenir,' and carried away to the south as a little parting present, might they not in some idle moment of the future recall some brief memory of these northern wilds? So she was at work on this task—and very careful that the lines should be clear and precise—when she heard the sound of voices without—or rather one voice, which presently she recognised to be Ronald's: she could not easily mistake it. And if she were to go to the window and get him to stop for a minute, at the gate, and show him the sketch that she had just about finished—perhaps he would be pleased?She went to the window—but instantly drew back. She had just caught a glimpse: it was the American young lady he was walking with—at a time when he was supposed to be so busy; and he was carrying her rod for her and her ulster as well as the salmon; and they were laughing and gaily talking together, like a pair of lovers almost on this clear spring day. Meenie went slowly back to the table—her face perhaps a trifle paler than usual; and she sate down, and began to look at the little drawing that she had been rather proud of. But her lips were proud and firm. Why should she give a drawing to any one—more especially to one who was so ready with his friendship and so quick to consort with strangers? The lines on the brown wood seemed cold and uninteresting; she was no longer anxious that they should suggest an accurate picture; nay, she pushed the thing away from her, and rose, and went back to the window, and stood idly gazing out there, her lips still proud, her mien defiant.And then—well, Ronald was going away. Was it worth while to let pride or self-love come between them and becloud these last few days, when perhaps they might never see each other again? For well she knew of her mother's aims and hopes with regard to herself; and well she knew that—whatever she may have guessed from the verses of Ronald's which assuredly had never been meant for her to see—it was neither for him nor for her to expect that the harsh facts and necessities of the world should give place and yield to a passing fancy, a dream, a kind of wistful, half-poetic shadow of what otherwise might have been. But at least Ronald and she might part friends; nay, they should part friends. And so she returned to the table—overmastering her momentary pride; and she took up the discarded little drawing and regarded it with gentler eyes. For, after all (as she could not forget) Ronald was going away.CHAPTER VI.POETA ... NON FIT.It soon became obvious that the salmon-fishers from the other side of the Atlantic had got into a long spell of deplorably fine weather; and a gentle melancholy settled down upon the souls of the gillies. In vain, morning after morning, the men searched every quarter of the heavens for any sign of even a couple of days' deluge to flood the rivers and send the kelts down and bring the clean salmon up from the sea. This wild and bleak region grew to be like some soft summer fairyland; the blue loch and the yellow headlands, and the far treeless stretches of moor lay basking in the sunlight; Ben Loyal's purples and browns were clear to the summit; Ben Clebrig's snows had nearly all melted away. Nor could the discontented boatmen understand how the two strangers should accept this state of affairs with apparent equanimity. Both were now provided with a book; and when the rods had been properly set so as to be ready for any emergency, they could pass the time pleasantly enough in this perfect stillness, gliding over the smooth waters, and drinking in the sweet mountain air. As for Miss Carry, she had again attacked the first volume of Gibbon—for she would hot be beaten; and very startling indeed it was when a fish did happen to strike the minnow, to be so suddenly summoned back from Palmyra to this Highland loch. In perfect silence, with eyes and attention all absented, she would be reading thus—'When the Syrian queen was brought into the presence of Aurelian, he sternly asked her, how she had presumed to rise in arms against the Emperor of Rome? The answer of Zenobia was a prudent mixture of respect and firmness'—when sharp would come the warning cry of Malcolm—'There he is, Miss!—there he is!'—and she would dash down the historian to find the rod being violently shaken and the reel screaming out its joyous note. Moreover, in this still weather, the unusual visitor not unfrequently brought some other element of surprise with him. She acquired a considerable experience of the different forms of foul-hooking and of the odd manoeuvres of the fish in such circumstances. On one occasion the salmon caught himself on the minnow by his dorsal fin; and for over an hour contented himself with rolling about under water without once showing himself, and with such a strain that she thought he must be the champion fish of the lake: when at last they did get him into the boat he was found to be a trifle under ten pounds. But, taken altogether, this cultivation of literature, varied by an occasional 'fluke' of a capture, and these placid and dreamlike mornings and afternoons, were far from being as satisfactory as the former and wilder days when Ronald was in the boat, even with all their discomforts of wind and rain and snow.By this time she had acquired another grievance.'Why did you let him go, pappa, without a single word?' she would say, as they sate over their books or newspapers in the evening. 'It was my only chance. You could easily have introduced yourself to him by speaking of the shooting——''You know very well, Carry,' he would answer—trying to draw her into the fields of common sense—'I can say nothing about that till I see how mother's health is.''I am sure she would say yes if she saw what the place has done for you, pappa; salmon-fishing has proved better for you than bromide of potassium. But that's not the trouble at all. Why did you let him go? Why did you let him spend the evening at the Doctor's?—and the next morning he went about the whole time with Ronald! My only chance of spurning a lord, too. Do they kneel in this country, pappa, when they make their declaration; or is that only in plays? Never mind; it would be all the same. "No, my lord; the daughter of a free Republic cannot wed a relic of feudalism; farewell, my lord, farewell! I know that you are heart-broken for life; but the daughter of a free Republic must be true to her manifest destiny."''Oh, be quiet!''And then the girls at home, when I got back, they would all have come crowding around: "Do tell, now, did you get a British nobleman to propose, Carry?" "What do you imagine I went to Europe for?" "And you rejected him?" "You bet your pile on that. Why, you should have seen him writhe on the floor when I spurned him! I spurned him, I tell you I did—the daughter of a free Republic"——''Will you be quiet!''But it was really too bad, pappa!' she protested. 'There he was lounging around all the morning. And all I heard him say was when he was just going—when he was on the mail-car, "Ronald," he called out, "have you got a match about you?"—and he had a wooden pipe in his hand. And that's all I know about the manners and conversation of the British nobility; and what will they say of me at home?''When does Ronald go?' he would ask; and this, at least, was one sure way of bringing her back to the paths of sanity and soberness; for the nearer that this departure came, the more concerned she was about it, having some faint consciousness that she herself had a share of the responsibility.And in another direction, moreover, she was becoming a little anxious. No message of any kind had arrived from theChicago Citizen. Now she had written to Miss Kerfoot before she left for Paris; her stay in the French capital had extended to nearly three weeks; there was the space occupied in going and returning; so that if Jack Huysen meant to do anything with the verses it was about time that that should appear. And the more she thought of it the more she set her heart on it, and hoped that Ronald's introduction to the reading public would be a flattering one and one of which he could reasonably be proud. Her father had it in his power to secure his material advancement; and that was well enough; but what if it were reserved for her to confer a far greater service on him? For if this first modest effort were welcomed in a friendly way, might he not be induced to put forth a volume, and claim a wider recognition? It need not interfere with his more practical work; and then, supposing it were successful? Look at the status it would win for him—a thing of far more value in the old country, where society is gradated into ranks, than in her country, where every one (except hotel clerks, as she insisted) was on the same plane. He would then be the equal of anybody—even in this old England; she had at least acquired so far a knowledge of English society. And if he owed the first suggestion and impulse to her?—if she were to be the means, in however small and tentative a fashion, of his ultimately establishing his fame? That he could do so if he tried, she never thought of doubting. She saw him every day, and the longer she knew him the more she was certain that the obvious mental force that seemed to radiate from him in the ordinary conversation and discussion of everyday life only wanted to be put into a definite literary channel to make its mark. And was not the time ripe for a poet? And it was not Edinburgh, or Glasgow, or London that had nowadays to decide on his merits, but two great continents of English-speaking people.At length came the answer to her urgent prayer—a letter from Miss Kerfoot and a copy of theChicago Citizen. The newspaper she opened first; saw with delight that a long notice—a very long notice indeed—had been accorded to the verses she had sent; and with a proud heart she put the paper in her pocket, for careful reading when she should get down to the lake. Miss Kerfoot's letter she glanced over; but it did not say much; the writer observed that Mr. Jack Huysen had only seemed half pleased when informed of Carry's extraordinary interest in the phenomenal Scotch gamekeeper; and, referring to the article in theCitizen, she said Jack Huysen had entrusted the writing of it to Mr. G. Quincy Regan, who was, she understood, one of the most cultured young men in Chicago, and likely to make quite a reputation for himself ere long. There were some other matters mentioned in this letter; but they need not detain us here.Miss Carry was in very high spirits as she set forth from the inn with her father to walk down to the boats. They met Ronald, too, on their way; he was accompanied by the man who was to take his place after his leaving; and Miss Carry could not help comparing the two of them as they came along the road. But, after all, it was not outward appearance that made the real difference between men; it was mental stature; she had that in her pocket which could show to everybody how Ronald was a head and shoulders over any of his peers. And she took but little interest in the setting up of the rods or the selection of the minnows; she wanted to be out on the lake, alone, in the silence, to read line by line and word by word this introduction of her hero to the public.The following is the article:'A REMARKABLE LITERARY DISCOVERY—OUR FELLOW-CITIZENS ABROAD—ANOTHER RUSTIC POET—CHICAGO CLAIMS HIM. It may be in the recollection of some of our readers that a few years ago a small party of American tourists, consisting of Curtis H. Mack, who was one of our most distinguished major-generals in the rebellion, and is now serving on the Indian frontier; his niece, Miss Hettie F. Doig, a very talented lady and contributor to several of our best periodicals; and John Grimsby Patterson, editor of the BaltimoreEvening News, were travelling in Europe, when they had the good fortune to discover an Irish poet, Patrick Milligan, who had long languished in obscurity, no doubt the victim of British jealousy as well as of misrule. Major-General Mack interested himself in this poor man, and, in conjunction with William B. Stevens, of Cleveland, Ohio, had him brought over to this country, where they were eventually successful in obtaining for him a postmastership in New Petersburg, Conn., leaving him to devote such time as he pleased to the service of the tuneful nine. Mr. Milligan's Doric reed has not piped to us much of late years; but we must all remember the stirring verses which he wrote on the occasion of Colonel George W. Will's nomination for Governor of Connecticut. It has now been reserved for another party of American travellers, still better known to us than the above, for they are no other than our esteemed fellow-citizen, Mr. Josiah Hodson and his brilliant and accomplished daughter, Miss Caroline Hodson, to make a similar discovery in the Highlands of Scotland; and in view of such recurring instances, we may well ask whether there be not in the mental alertness of our newer civilisation a capacity for the detection and recognition of intellectual merit which exists not among the deadening influences of an older and exhausted civilisation. It has sometimes been charged against this country that we do not excel in arts and letters; that we are in a measure careless of them; that political problems and material interests occupy our mind. The present writer, at least, is in no hurry to repel that charge, odious as it may seem to some. We, as Americans, should remember that the Athenian Republic, with which our western Republic has nothing to fear in the way of comparison, when it boasted its most lavish display of artistic and literary culture, was no less conspicuous for its moral degeneracy and political corruption. It was in the age of Pericles and of Phidias, of Socrates and Sophocles, of Euripides and Aristophanes and Thucydides, that Athens showed herself most profligate; private licence was unbridled; justice was bought and sold; generals incited to war that they might fill their pockets out of the public purse; and all this spectacle in striking contrast with the manly virtues of the rude and unlettered kingdom of Sparta, whose envoys were laughed at because they had not the trick of Athenian oratory and casuistry. We say, then, that we are not anxious to repel this charge brought against our great western Republic, that we assign to arts and letters a secondary place; on the contrary, we are content that the over-cultivation of these should fatten on the decaying and effete nations of Europe, as phosphorus shines in rotten wood.'Now she had determined to read every sentence of this article conscientiously, as something more than a mere intellectual treat; but, as she went on, joy did not seem to be the result. The reference to Patrick Milligan and the postmastership in Connecticut she considered to be distinctly impertinent; but perhaps Jack Huysen had not explained clearly to the young gentleman all that she had written to Emma Kerfoot? Anyhow, she thought, when he came to Ronald's little Highland poem, he would perhaps drop his Athenians, and talk more like a reasonable human being.'That the first strain from the new singer's lyre should be placed at the services of the readers of theCitizen, we owe to the patriotism of the well-known and charming lady whose name we have given above; nor could the verses have fallen into better hands. In this case there is no need that Horace should cry to Tyndaris—O matre pulchrâ filia pulchrior,Quem criminosis cunque voles modumPones iambis, sive flammâSive mari libet Hadriano.Moreover, we have received a hint that this may not be the last piece of the kind with which we may be favoured; so that we have again to thank our fair fellow-townswoman for her kindly attention. But lest our readers may be growing weary of thisprolegomenon, we will at once quote this latest utterance of the Scottish muse which has come to us under such favourable auspices:'Here followed Ronald's poor verses, that perhaps looked insignificant enough, after this sonorous trumpet-blaring. The writer proceeded:'Now certain qualities in this composition are so obvious that we need hardly specify them; we give the writer credit for simplicity, pathos, and a hearty sympathy with the victims of the tyrannical greed of the chase-loving British landlord. But it is with no intent of looking a gift-horse in the mouth (which would be a poor return for the courtesy of the lady who has interested herself in the rustic bard) if we proceed to resolve this piece into its elements, that we may the more accurately cast the horoscope of this new applicant for the public applause. To begin with, the sentiment of nostalgia is but a slender backbone for any work of literary art. In almost every case it is itself a fallacy. What were the conditions under which these people—arbitrarily and tyrannically, it may have been—were forced away from their homes? Either they were bad agriculturists or the land was too poor to support them; and in either case their transference to a more generous soil could be nothing but a benefit to them. Their life must have been full of privations and cares.Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit; but the pleasure ought to lie in thinking of the escape; so that we maintain that to base any piece of literary work on such a false sentiment as nostalgia is seen to be, leads us to suspect theveracityof the writer and calls upon us to be on our guard. Moreover, we maintain that it is of the essence of pastoral and idyllic poetry to be cheerful and jocund; and it is to be observed that sadness prevails in poetry only when a nation has passed its youth and becomes saturated with the regret of old age. We prefer the stories told

Who will buy pansies?

There are her eyes,

Dew-soft and tender,

Love in them lies.

Who will buy roses?

There are her lips,

And there is the nectar

That Cupidon sips.

Who will buy lilies?

There are her cheeks,

And there the shy blushing

That maidhood bespeaks.

'Meenie, Love Meenie,

What must one pay?'

'Good stranger, the market's

Not open to-day!'

He looked at the verses again and again; and the longer he looked at them the less he liked them—he scarcely knew why. Perhaps they were a little too literary? They seemed to lack naturalness and simplicity; at all events, they were not true to Meenie; why should Meenie figure as a flippant coquette? And so he threw them away and turned to his books—not the scientific ones—to hunt out something that was like Meenie. He came near it in Tannahill, but was not quite satisfied. A verse or two in Keats held his fancy for a moment. But at last he found what he wanted in Wordsworth—

'A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye;—Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.'

'A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye;

—Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.'

Yes; that was liker Meenie—who 'dwelt among the untrodden ways.'

CHAPTER V.

A LESSON IN FLY-FISHING.

Miss Carry Hodson returned from Paris in a very radiant mood; she had had what she called a real good time, and everything connected with the wedding had gone off most successfully. Her dress, that she had ordered long before she came to the Highlands, was a perfect fit; Lily Selden made the most charming and beautiful of brides; and no less a person than a prince (rather swarthy, and hailing from some mysterious region east of the Carpathians) had proposed the health of the bridesmaids, and had made especial mention of the young ladies who had travelled long distances to be present on the auspicious occasion.

However, on the morning after her return to Inver-Mudal her equanimity was somewhat dashed. When she went along the passage to the little hall—to see what the morning was like outside—she found waiting there a respectable-looking elderly Highlander, with grizzled locks, who touched his cap to her, and who had her waterproof over his arm. This last circumstance made her suspicious; instantly she went back to her father.

'Who is that man?' she asked.

'What man?'

'Why, an old man, who is waiting there, and he has got my waterproof slung over his arm.'

'Well, I suppose that is the new gillie.'

'Isn't Ronald going down?' she said, with very evident disappointment.

'Of course not,' her father said, with some sharpness. 'I think you have taken up enough of his time. And just now, when he is getting ready to go away, do you think I could allow him to waste day after day in attending to us? Seems to me it would be more to the point if you put your small amount of brain into devising some means of squaring up with him for what he has done already.'

'Oh, very well,' she said—or rather, what she did really say was 'Oh, vurry well'—and the pretty, pale, attractive face resumed its ordinary complacency, and she went off to make friends with the new gillie. She was on good terms with the old Highlander in about a couple of minutes; and presently they were on their way down to the loch, along with the lad John. Her father was to follow as soon as he had finished his letters.

But she was now to discover, what she had never discovered before, that salmon-fishing on a loch is a rather monotonous affair, unless the fish are taking very freely indeed. For one thing, the weather had settled down into a fine, clear, spring-like calm and quiet that was not at all favourable to the sport. It was very beautiful, no doubt; for sometimes for hours together the lake would be like a sheet of glass—the yellow shores and purple birch-woods all accurately doubled, with nearer at hand the faint white reflections of the snow-peaks in the north stretching out into the soft and deep blue; and when a breath of wind, from some unexpected point of the compass, began to draw a sharp line of silver between earth and water, and then came slowly across the loch to them, ruffling out that magic inverted picture on its way, the breeze was deliciously fresh and balmy, and seemed to bring with it tidings of the secret life that was working forward to the leafiness of summer. They kept well out into the midst of this spacious circle of loveliness, for old Malcolm declared they would be doing more harm than good by going over the fishing-ground; so she had a sufficiently ample view of this great panorama of water and wood and far mountain-slopes. But it grew monotonous. She began to think of Paris, and the brisk, busy days—a hurry of gaiety and pleasure and interest using up every possible minute. She wished she had a book—some knitting—anything. Why, when Ronald was in the boat—with his quick sarcastic appreciation of every story she had to tell, or every experience she had to describe—there was always enough amusement and talking. But this old man was hopeless. She asked him questions about his croft, his family, his sheep and cows; and he answered gravely; but she took no interest in his answers, as her father might have done. She was unmistakably glad to get ashore for lunch—which was picturesque enough, by the way, with that beautiful background all around; and neither her father nor herself was in any hurry to break up the small picnic-party and set to work again.

Nor did they do much better in the afternoon—though her father managed to capture a small eight-pounder; and so, in the evening, before dinner, she went along to Ronald to complain. She found him busy with his books; his gun and cap and telescope lying on the table beside him, showed that he had just come in.

'Ay,' said he, 'it's slow work in weather like this. But will ye no sit down?' and he went and brought her a chair.

'No, I thank you,' said she; 'I came along to see if you thought there was likely to be any change. Is your glass a good one?'

'First-rate,' he answered, and he went to the small aneroid and tapped it lightly. 'It was given me by a gentleman that shot his first stag up here. I think he would have given me his head, he was so pleased. Well, no, Miss Hodson, there's not much sign of a change. But I'll tell ye what we'll do, if you're tired of the loch, we'll try one or two of the pools on the Mudal.'

'You mean the river down there?'

'There's not much hope there either—for the water's low the now; but we might by chance get a little wind, or there are some broken bits in the stream—

'But you mean with a fly—how could I throw a fly?' she exclaimed.

'Ye'll never learn younger,' was the quiet answer. 'It there's no change to-morrow I'll take ye up the river myself—and at least ye can get some practice in casting——'

'Oh no, no,' said she hurriedly, 'thank you very much, but I must not take up your time——'

'I'm no so busy that I cannot leave the house for an hour or two,' said he—and she understood by his manner that he was 'putting his foot down,' in which case she knew she might just as well give in at once. 'But I warn ye that it's a dour river at the best, and not likely to be in good ply; however, we might just happen on one.' And then he added, by way of explanation, 'If we should, it will have to be sent to Lord Ailine, ye understand.'

'Why?'

'Because the river doesna belong to your fishing; it goes with the shooting.'

'Oh,' said she, somewhat coldly. 'And so, when Lord Ailine gives any one a day's fishing he claims whatever fish they may catch?'

'When his lordship gives a day's fishing he does not; but when the keeper does—that's different,' was the perfectly simple and respectful answer.

'Oh, I beg your pardon,' said she hastily, and sincerely hoping she had said nothing to wound his feelings. Apparently she had not, for he proceeded to warn her about the necessity of her putting on a thick pair of boots; and he also gently hinted that she might wear on her head something less conspicuous than the bright orange Tam o' Shanter of which she seemed rather fond.

Accordingly, next morning, instead of sending him a message that she was ready, she walked along to the cottage, accoutred for a thorough stiff day's work. The outer door was open, so she entered without ceremony; and then tapped at the door of the little parlour, which she proceeded to open also. She then found that Ronald was not alone; there was a young man sitting there, who instantly rose as she made her appearance. She had but a momentary glimpse of him, but she came to the conclusion that the gamekeepers in this part of the world were a good-looking race, for this was a strongly-built young fellow, keen and active, apparently, with a rather pink and white complexion, closely-cropped head, bright yellow moustache, and singularly clear blue eyes. He wore a plain tweed suit; and as he rose he picked up a billycock hat that was lying on the table.

'I'll see you to-night, Ronald,' said he, 'I'm going off by the mail again to-morrow.'

And as he passed by Miss Carry, he said, very modestly and respectfully—

'I hope you will have good sport.'

'Thank you,' said she, most civilly, for he seemed a well-mannered young man, as he slightly bowed to her in passing, and made his way out.

Ronald had everything ready for the start.

'I'm feared they'll be laughing at us for trying the river on so clear a day,' said he, as he put his big fly-book in his pocket. 'And there's been no rain to let the fish get up.'

'Oh I don't mind about that,' said she, as he held the door open, and she went out, 'it will be more interesting than the lake. However, I've nothing to say against the lake fishing, for it has done such wonders for my father. I have not seen him so well for years. Whether it is the quiet life, or the mountain air, I don't know, but he sleeps perfectly, and he has entirely given up the bromide of potassium. I do hope he will take the shooting and come back in the autumn.'

'His lordship was saying there were two other gentlemen after it,' remarked Ronald significantly.

'Who was saying?'

'His lordship—that was in the house the now when ye came in.'

'Was that Lord Ailine?' she said—and she almost paused in their walk along the road.

'Oh yes.'

'You don't say! Why, how did he come here?'

'By the mail this morning.'

'With the country people?'

'Just like anybody else,' he said.

'Well, I declare! I thought he would have come with a coach and outriders—in state, you know——'

'What for?' said he impassively. 'He had no luggage, I suppose, but a bag and a waterproof. It's different in the autumn, of course, when all the gentlemen come up, and there's luggage and the rifles and the cartridge-boxes—then they have to have a brake or a waggonette.'

'And that was Lord Ailine,' she said, half to herself; and there was no further speaking between them until they had gone past the Doctor's cottage and over the bridge and were some distance up 'the strath that Mudal laves'—to quote her companion's own words.

'Now,' said he, as he stooped and began to put together the slender grilse-rod, 'we'll just let ye try a cast or two on this bit of open grass—and we'll no trouble with a fly as yet.'

He fastened on the reel, got the line through the rings, and drew out a few yards' length. Then he gave her the rod; showed her how to hold it; and then stood just behind her, with his right hand covering hers.

'Now,' said he, 'keep your left hand just about as steady as ye can—and don't jerk—this way—

Of course it was really he who was making these few preliminary casts, and each time the line ran out and fell straight and trembling on the grass.

'Now try it yourself.'

At first she made a very bad job of it—especially when she tried to do it by main force; the line came curling down not much more than the rod's length in front of her, and the more she whipped the closer became the curls.

'I'm afraid I don't catch on quite,' she said, unconsciously adopting one of her father's phrases.

'Patience—patience,' said he; and again he gripped her hand in his and the line seemed to run out clear with the gentlest possible forward movement.

And then he put out more line—and still more and more—until every backward and upward swoop of the rod, and every forward cast, was accompanied by a 'swish' through the air. This was all very well; and she was throwing a beautiful, clean line; but she began to wonder when the bones in her right hand would suddenly succumb and be crunched into a jelly. The weight of the rod—which seemed a mighty engine to her—did not tell on her, for his one hand did the whole thing; but his grip was terrible; and yet she did not like to speak.

'Now try for yourself,' said he, and he stepped aside.

'Wait a minute,' she said—and she shook her hand, to get the life back into it.

'I did not hurt you?' said he, in great concern.

'We learn in suffering what we teach in song,' she said lightly. 'If I am to catch a salmon with a fly-rod, I suppose I have got to go through something.'

She set to work again; and, curiously enough, she seemed to succeed better with the longer line than with the short one. There was less jerking; the forward movement was more even; and though she was far indeed from throwing a good line, it was very passable for a beginner.

'You know,' said she, giving him a good-humoured hint, 'I don't feel like doing this all day.'

'Well, then, we'll go down to the water now,' said he, and he took the rod from her.

They walked down through the swampy grass and heather to the banks of the stream; and here he got out his fly-book—a bulged and baggy volume much the worse for wear. And then it instantly occurred to her that this was something she could get for him—the most splendid fly-book and assortment of salmon flies to be procured in London—until it just as suddenly occurred to her that he would have little use for these in Glasgow. She saw him select a smallish black and gold and crimson-tipped object from that bulky volume; and a few minutes thereafter she was armed for the fray, and he was standing by watching.

Now the Mudal, though an exceedingly 'dour' salmon-river, is at least easy for a beginner to fish, for there is scarcely anywhere a bush along its level banks. And there were the pools—some of them deep and drumly enough in all conscience; and no doubt there were salmon in them, if only they could be seduced from their lair. For one thing, Ronald had taken her to a part of the stream where she could not, in any case, do much harm by her preliminary whippings of the water.

She began—not without some little excitement, and awful visions of triumph and glory if she should really be able to capture a salmon by her own unaided skill. Of course she caught in the heather behind her sometimes; and occasionally the line would come down in a ghastly heap on the water; but then again it would go fairly out and over to the other bank, and the letting it down with the current and drawing it across—as he had shown her in one or two casts—was a comparatively easy matter. She worked hard, at all events, and obeyed implicitly—until alas! there came a catastrophe.

'A little bit nearer the bank if you can,' said he; 'just a foot nearer.'

She clenched her teeth. Back went the rod with all her might—and forward again with all her might—but midway and overhead there was a mighty crack like that of a horse-whip; and calmly he regarded the line as it fell on the water.

'The fly's gone,' said he—but with not a trace of vexation.

'Oh, Ronald, I'm so sorry!' she cried, for she knew that these things were expensive, even where they did not involve a considerable outlay of personal skill and trouble.

'Not at all,' said he, as he quietly sate down on a dry bunch of heather and got out his book again. 'All beginners do that. I'll just show ye in a minute or two how to avoid it. And we'll try a change now.'

Indeed she was in no way loth to sit down on the heather too; and even after he had selected the particular Childers he wanted, she took the book, and would have him tell her the names of all the various flies, which, quite apart from their killing merits, seemed to her beautiful and interesting objects. And finally she said—

'Ronald, my arms are a little tired. Won't you try a cast or two? I am sure I should learn as much by looking on.'

He did as he was bid; and she went with him; but he could not stir anything. The river was low; the day was clear; there was no wind. But at last they came to a part of the stream where there was a dark and deep pool, and below that a wide bed of shingle, while between the shingle and the bank was a narrow channel where the water tossed and raced before breaking out into the shallows. He drew her a little bit back from the bank and made her take the rod again.

'If there's a chance at all, it's there,' he said. 'Do ye see that stone over there?—well, just try to drop the fly a foot above the stone, and let it get into the swirl.'

She made her first cast—the line fell in a tangled heap about three yards short.

'Ye've got out of the way of it,' said he, and he took the rod from her, let out a little more line, and then gave it to her again, standing behind her, with his hand over-gripping hers.

'Now!'

The fly fell a foot short—but clean. The next cast it fell at the precise spot indicated, and was swept into the current, and dragged slowly and jerkily across. Again he made the cast for her, with the same negative result; and then he withdrew his hand.

'That's right—very well done!' he said, as she continued.

'Yes, but what's the use when you have tried——'

She had scarcely got the words out when she suddenly found the line held tight—and tighter—she saw it cut its way through the water, up and towards the bank of the pool above—and down and down was the point of the rod pulled until it almost touched the stream. All this had happened in one wild second.

'Let the line go!—what are ye doing, lassie?' he cried. The fact was that in her sudden alarm she had grasped both line and rod more firmly than ever; and in another half second the fish must inevitably have broken something. But this exclamation of his recalled her to her senses—she let the line go free—got up the rod—and then waited events—with her heart in her mouth. She had not long to wait. It very soon appeared to her as if she had hooked an incarnate flash of lightning; for there was nothing this beast did not attempt to do; now rushing down the narrow channel so close to the bank that a single out-jutting twig must have cut the line; now lashing on the edge of the shallows; twice jerking himself into the air; and then settling down in the deep pool, not to sulk, but to twist and tug at the line in a series of angry snaps. And always it was 'Oh, Ronald, what shall I do now?' or 'Ronald, what will he do next?'

'You're doing well enough,' said he placidly. 'But it will be a long fight; and ye must not let him too far down the stream, or he'll take ye below the foot bridge. And don't give him much line; follow him, rather.'

She was immediately called on to act on this advice; for with one determined, vicious rush, away went the salmon down the stream—she after him as well as her woman's skirts would allow, and always and valorously she was keeping a tight strain on the pliant rod. Alas! all of a sudden her foot caught in a tuft of heather—down she went, prone, her arms thrown forward so that nothing could save her. But did she let go the rod? Not a bit! She clung to it with the one hand; and when Ronald helped her to her feet again, she had no thought of herself at all—all her breathless interest was centred on the salmon. Fortunately that creature had now taken to sulking, in a pool farther down; and she followed him, getting in the line the while.

'But I'm afraid you're hurt,' said he.

'No, no.'

Something was tickling the side of her face. She shifted the grip of the rod, and passed the back of her right hand across her ear; a brief glance showed her that her knuckles were stained with blood. But she took no further heed; for she had to get both hands on the rod again.

'She has pluck, that one,' Ronald said to himself; but he said nothing aloud, he wanted her to remain as self-possessed as possible.

'And what if he goes down to the footbridge, Ronald?' she said presently.

'But ye must not let him.'

'But if he will go?'

'Then ye'll give me the rod and I'll take it under the bridge.'

The fish lay there as heavy and dead as a stone; nothing they could do could stir him an inch.

'The beast has been at this work before,' Ronald said. 'That jagging to get the hook out is the trick of an old hand. But this sulking will never do at all.'

He left her and went farther up the stream to the place where the river ran over the wide bed of shingle. There he deliberately walked into the water—picking up a few pebbles as he went—and, with a running leap, crossed the channel and gained the opposite bank. Then he quickly walked down to within a yard or two of the spot where the 'dour' salmon lay.

She thought this was very foolish child's play that he should go and fling little stones at a fish he could not see. But presently she perceived that he was trying all he could to get the pebbles to drop vertically and parallel with the line. And then the object of this device was apparent. The salmon moved heavily forward, some few inches only. Another pebble was dropped. This time the fish made a violent rush up stream that caused Miss Carry's reel to shriek; and off she set after him (but with more circumspection this time as regards her footing), getting in the line as rapidly as possible as she went. Ronald now came over and joined her, and this was comforting to her nerves.

Well, long before she had killed that fish she had discovered the difference between loch-fishing and river-fishing; but she did kill him in the end; and mightily pleased she was when she saw him lying on the sere wintry grass. Ronald would have had her try again; but she had had enough; it was past lunch time, and she was hungry; moreover, she was tired; and then again she did not wish that he should waste the whole day. So, when she had sate down for a while, and watched him tie the salmon head and tail, they set out for the village again, very well content; while as for the slight wound she had received by her ear catching on a twig of heather when she fell, that was quite forgotten now.

'And ye are to have the fish,' said he. 'I told his lordship this morning you were going to try your hand at the casting; and he said if you got one you would be proud of it, no doubt, and ye were to keep it, of course.'

'Well, that is very kind; I suppose I must thank him if I see him?'

And she was very curious to know all about Lord Ailine; and why he should come to Inver-Mudal merely for these few hours; and what kind of people he brought with him in the autumn. He answered her as well as he could; and then they went on to other things—all in a very gay and merry mood, for he was as proud as she was over this achievement.

At the same moment Meenie Douglas was in her own little room, engaged on a work of art of a not very ambitious kind. She had lying before her on the table a pencil-sketch in outline of such features of the landscape as could be seen from the window—the loch, the wooded promontories, Ben Clebrig, and the little clump of trees that sheltered the inn; and she was engaged in making a smaller copy of this drawing, in pen and ink, on a paper-cutter of brown wood. She was not much of an artist, perhaps; but surely these simple outlines were recognisable; and if they were to be entitled 'A Souvenir,' and carried away to the south as a little parting present, might they not in some idle moment of the future recall some brief memory of these northern wilds? So she was at work on this task—and very careful that the lines should be clear and precise—when she heard the sound of voices without—or rather one voice, which presently she recognised to be Ronald's: she could not easily mistake it. And if she were to go to the window and get him to stop for a minute, at the gate, and show him the sketch that she had just about finished—perhaps he would be pleased?

She went to the window—but instantly drew back. She had just caught a glimpse: it was the American young lady he was walking with—at a time when he was supposed to be so busy; and he was carrying her rod for her and her ulster as well as the salmon; and they were laughing and gaily talking together, like a pair of lovers almost on this clear spring day. Meenie went slowly back to the table—her face perhaps a trifle paler than usual; and she sate down, and began to look at the little drawing that she had been rather proud of. But her lips were proud and firm. Why should she give a drawing to any one—more especially to one who was so ready with his friendship and so quick to consort with strangers? The lines on the brown wood seemed cold and uninteresting; she was no longer anxious that they should suggest an accurate picture; nay, she pushed the thing away from her, and rose, and went back to the window, and stood idly gazing out there, her lips still proud, her mien defiant.

And then—well, Ronald was going away. Was it worth while to let pride or self-love come between them and becloud these last few days, when perhaps they might never see each other again? For well she knew of her mother's aims and hopes with regard to herself; and well she knew that—whatever she may have guessed from the verses of Ronald's which assuredly had never been meant for her to see—it was neither for him nor for her to expect that the harsh facts and necessities of the world should give place and yield to a passing fancy, a dream, a kind of wistful, half-poetic shadow of what otherwise might have been. But at least Ronald and she might part friends; nay, they should part friends. And so she returned to the table—overmastering her momentary pride; and she took up the discarded little drawing and regarded it with gentler eyes. For, after all (as she could not forget) Ronald was going away.

CHAPTER VI.

POETA ... NON FIT.

It soon became obvious that the salmon-fishers from the other side of the Atlantic had got into a long spell of deplorably fine weather; and a gentle melancholy settled down upon the souls of the gillies. In vain, morning after morning, the men searched every quarter of the heavens for any sign of even a couple of days' deluge to flood the rivers and send the kelts down and bring the clean salmon up from the sea. This wild and bleak region grew to be like some soft summer fairyland; the blue loch and the yellow headlands, and the far treeless stretches of moor lay basking in the sunlight; Ben Loyal's purples and browns were clear to the summit; Ben Clebrig's snows had nearly all melted away. Nor could the discontented boatmen understand how the two strangers should accept this state of affairs with apparent equanimity. Both were now provided with a book; and when the rods had been properly set so as to be ready for any emergency, they could pass the time pleasantly enough in this perfect stillness, gliding over the smooth waters, and drinking in the sweet mountain air. As for Miss Carry, she had again attacked the first volume of Gibbon—for she would hot be beaten; and very startling indeed it was when a fish did happen to strike the minnow, to be so suddenly summoned back from Palmyra to this Highland loch. In perfect silence, with eyes and attention all absented, she would be reading thus—

'When the Syrian queen was brought into the presence of Aurelian, he sternly asked her, how she had presumed to rise in arms against the Emperor of Rome? The answer of Zenobia was a prudent mixture of respect and firmness'—when sharp would come the warning cry of Malcolm—'There he is, Miss!—there he is!'—and she would dash down the historian to find the rod being violently shaken and the reel screaming out its joyous note. Moreover, in this still weather, the unusual visitor not unfrequently brought some other element of surprise with him. She acquired a considerable experience of the different forms of foul-hooking and of the odd manoeuvres of the fish in such circumstances. On one occasion the salmon caught himself on the minnow by his dorsal fin; and for over an hour contented himself with rolling about under water without once showing himself, and with such a strain that she thought he must be the champion fish of the lake: when at last they did get him into the boat he was found to be a trifle under ten pounds. But, taken altogether, this cultivation of literature, varied by an occasional 'fluke' of a capture, and these placid and dreamlike mornings and afternoons, were far from being as satisfactory as the former and wilder days when Ronald was in the boat, even with all their discomforts of wind and rain and snow.

By this time she had acquired another grievance.

'Why did you let him go, pappa, without a single word?' she would say, as they sate over their books or newspapers in the evening. 'It was my only chance. You could easily have introduced yourself to him by speaking of the shooting——'

'You know very well, Carry,' he would answer—trying to draw her into the fields of common sense—'I can say nothing about that till I see how mother's health is.'

'I am sure she would say yes if she saw what the place has done for you, pappa; salmon-fishing has proved better for you than bromide of potassium. But that's not the trouble at all. Why did you let him go? Why did you let him spend the evening at the Doctor's?—and the next morning he went about the whole time with Ronald! My only chance of spurning a lord, too. Do they kneel in this country, pappa, when they make their declaration; or is that only in plays? Never mind; it would be all the same. "No, my lord; the daughter of a free Republic cannot wed a relic of feudalism; farewell, my lord, farewell! I know that you are heart-broken for life; but the daughter of a free Republic must be true to her manifest destiny."'

'Oh, be quiet!'

'And then the girls at home, when I got back, they would all have come crowding around: "Do tell, now, did you get a British nobleman to propose, Carry?" "What do you imagine I went to Europe for?" "And you rejected him?" "You bet your pile on that. Why, you should have seen him writhe on the floor when I spurned him! I spurned him, I tell you I did—the daughter of a free Republic"——'

'Will you be quiet!'

'But it was really too bad, pappa!' she protested. 'There he was lounging around all the morning. And all I heard him say was when he was just going—when he was on the mail-car, "Ronald," he called out, "have you got a match about you?"—and he had a wooden pipe in his hand. And that's all I know about the manners and conversation of the British nobility; and what will they say of me at home?'

'When does Ronald go?' he would ask; and this, at least, was one sure way of bringing her back to the paths of sanity and soberness; for the nearer that this departure came, the more concerned she was about it, having some faint consciousness that she herself had a share of the responsibility.

And in another direction, moreover, she was becoming a little anxious. No message of any kind had arrived from theChicago Citizen. Now she had written to Miss Kerfoot before she left for Paris; her stay in the French capital had extended to nearly three weeks; there was the space occupied in going and returning; so that if Jack Huysen meant to do anything with the verses it was about time that that should appear. And the more she thought of it the more she set her heart on it, and hoped that Ronald's introduction to the reading public would be a flattering one and one of which he could reasonably be proud. Her father had it in his power to secure his material advancement; and that was well enough; but what if it were reserved for her to confer a far greater service on him? For if this first modest effort were welcomed in a friendly way, might he not be induced to put forth a volume, and claim a wider recognition? It need not interfere with his more practical work; and then, supposing it were successful? Look at the status it would win for him—a thing of far more value in the old country, where society is gradated into ranks, than in her country, where every one (except hotel clerks, as she insisted) was on the same plane. He would then be the equal of anybody—even in this old England; she had at least acquired so far a knowledge of English society. And if he owed the first suggestion and impulse to her?—if she were to be the means, in however small and tentative a fashion, of his ultimately establishing his fame? That he could do so if he tried, she never thought of doubting. She saw him every day, and the longer she knew him the more she was certain that the obvious mental force that seemed to radiate from him in the ordinary conversation and discussion of everyday life only wanted to be put into a definite literary channel to make its mark. And was not the time ripe for a poet? And it was not Edinburgh, or Glasgow, or London that had nowadays to decide on his merits, but two great continents of English-speaking people.

At length came the answer to her urgent prayer—a letter from Miss Kerfoot and a copy of theChicago Citizen. The newspaper she opened first; saw with delight that a long notice—a very long notice indeed—had been accorded to the verses she had sent; and with a proud heart she put the paper in her pocket, for careful reading when she should get down to the lake. Miss Kerfoot's letter she glanced over; but it did not say much; the writer observed that Mr. Jack Huysen had only seemed half pleased when informed of Carry's extraordinary interest in the phenomenal Scotch gamekeeper; and, referring to the article in theCitizen, she said Jack Huysen had entrusted the writing of it to Mr. G. Quincy Regan, who was, she understood, one of the most cultured young men in Chicago, and likely to make quite a reputation for himself ere long. There were some other matters mentioned in this letter; but they need not detain us here.

Miss Carry was in very high spirits as she set forth from the inn with her father to walk down to the boats. They met Ronald, too, on their way; he was accompanied by the man who was to take his place after his leaving; and Miss Carry could not help comparing the two of them as they came along the road. But, after all, it was not outward appearance that made the real difference between men; it was mental stature; she had that in her pocket which could show to everybody how Ronald was a head and shoulders over any of his peers. And she took but little interest in the setting up of the rods or the selection of the minnows; she wanted to be out on the lake, alone, in the silence, to read line by line and word by word this introduction of her hero to the public.

The following is the article:

'A REMARKABLE LITERARY DISCOVERY—OUR FELLOW-CITIZENS ABROAD—ANOTHER RUSTIC POET—CHICAGO CLAIMS HIM. It may be in the recollection of some of our readers that a few years ago a small party of American tourists, consisting of Curtis H. Mack, who was one of our most distinguished major-generals in the rebellion, and is now serving on the Indian frontier; his niece, Miss Hettie F. Doig, a very talented lady and contributor to several of our best periodicals; and John Grimsby Patterson, editor of the BaltimoreEvening News, were travelling in Europe, when they had the good fortune to discover an Irish poet, Patrick Milligan, who had long languished in obscurity, no doubt the victim of British jealousy as well as of misrule. Major-General Mack interested himself in this poor man, and, in conjunction with William B. Stevens, of Cleveland, Ohio, had him brought over to this country, where they were eventually successful in obtaining for him a postmastership in New Petersburg, Conn., leaving him to devote such time as he pleased to the service of the tuneful nine. Mr. Milligan's Doric reed has not piped to us much of late years; but we must all remember the stirring verses which he wrote on the occasion of Colonel George W. Will's nomination for Governor of Connecticut. It has now been reserved for another party of American travellers, still better known to us than the above, for they are no other than our esteemed fellow-citizen, Mr. Josiah Hodson and his brilliant and accomplished daughter, Miss Caroline Hodson, to make a similar discovery in the Highlands of Scotland; and in view of such recurring instances, we may well ask whether there be not in the mental alertness of our newer civilisation a capacity for the detection and recognition of intellectual merit which exists not among the deadening influences of an older and exhausted civilisation. It has sometimes been charged against this country that we do not excel in arts and letters; that we are in a measure careless of them; that political problems and material interests occupy our mind. The present writer, at least, is in no hurry to repel that charge, odious as it may seem to some. We, as Americans, should remember that the Athenian Republic, with which our western Republic has nothing to fear in the way of comparison, when it boasted its most lavish display of artistic and literary culture, was no less conspicuous for its moral degeneracy and political corruption. It was in the age of Pericles and of Phidias, of Socrates and Sophocles, of Euripides and Aristophanes and Thucydides, that Athens showed herself most profligate; private licence was unbridled; justice was bought and sold; generals incited to war that they might fill their pockets out of the public purse; and all this spectacle in striking contrast with the manly virtues of the rude and unlettered kingdom of Sparta, whose envoys were laughed at because they had not the trick of Athenian oratory and casuistry. We say, then, that we are not anxious to repel this charge brought against our great western Republic, that we assign to arts and letters a secondary place; on the contrary, we are content that the over-cultivation of these should fatten on the decaying and effete nations of Europe, as phosphorus shines in rotten wood.'

Now she had determined to read every sentence of this article conscientiously, as something more than a mere intellectual treat; but, as she went on, joy did not seem to be the result. The reference to Patrick Milligan and the postmastership in Connecticut she considered to be distinctly impertinent; but perhaps Jack Huysen had not explained clearly to the young gentleman all that she had written to Emma Kerfoot? Anyhow, she thought, when he came to Ronald's little Highland poem, he would perhaps drop his Athenians, and talk more like a reasonable human being.

'That the first strain from the new singer's lyre should be placed at the services of the readers of theCitizen, we owe to the patriotism of the well-known and charming lady whose name we have given above; nor could the verses have fallen into better hands. In this case there is no need that Horace should cry to Tyndaris—

O matre pulchrâ filia pulchrior,Quem criminosis cunque voles modumPones iambis, sive flammâSive mari libet Hadriano.

O matre pulchrâ filia pulchrior,

Quem criminosis cunque voles modum

Pones iambis, sive flammâSive mari libet Hadriano.

Pones iambis, sive flammâ

Sive mari libet Hadriano.

Moreover, we have received a hint that this may not be the last piece of the kind with which we may be favoured; so that we have again to thank our fair fellow-townswoman for her kindly attention. But lest our readers may be growing weary of thisprolegomenon, we will at once quote this latest utterance of the Scottish muse which has come to us under such favourable auspices:'

Here followed Ronald's poor verses, that perhaps looked insignificant enough, after this sonorous trumpet-blaring. The writer proceeded:

'Now certain qualities in this composition are so obvious that we need hardly specify them; we give the writer credit for simplicity, pathos, and a hearty sympathy with the victims of the tyrannical greed of the chase-loving British landlord. But it is with no intent of looking a gift-horse in the mouth (which would be a poor return for the courtesy of the lady who has interested herself in the rustic bard) if we proceed to resolve this piece into its elements, that we may the more accurately cast the horoscope of this new applicant for the public applause. To begin with, the sentiment of nostalgia is but a slender backbone for any work of literary art. In almost every case it is itself a fallacy. What were the conditions under which these people—arbitrarily and tyrannically, it may have been—were forced away from their homes? Either they were bad agriculturists or the land was too poor to support them; and in either case their transference to a more generous soil could be nothing but a benefit to them. Their life must have been full of privations and cares.Forsan et haec olim meminisse juvabit; but the pleasure ought to lie in thinking of the escape; so that we maintain that to base any piece of literary work on such a false sentiment as nostalgia is seen to be, leads us to suspect theveracityof the writer and calls upon us to be on our guard. Moreover, we maintain that it is of the essence of pastoral and idyllic poetry to be cheerful and jocund; and it is to be observed that sadness prevails in poetry only when a nation has passed its youth and becomes saturated with the regret of old age. We prefer the stories told

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