Upper Dam at Rangeley.

She went reluctant. She arrived disgusted. She stayed incredulous. She
returned--Wait a bit, and you shall hear how she returned.

The Upper Dam at Rangeley is the place, of all others in the world,
where the lunacy of angling may be seen in its incurable stage. There is
a cosy little inn, called a camp, at the foot of a big lake. In front of
the inn is a huge dam of gray stone, over which the river plunges into
a great oval pool, where the trout assemble in the early fall to
perpetuate their race. From the tenth of September to the thirtieth,
there is not an hour of the day or night when there are no boats
floating on that pool, and no anglers trailing the fly across its
waters. Before the late fishermen are ready to come in at midnight, the
early fishermen may be seen creeping down to the shore with lanterns
in order to begin before cock-crow. The number of fish taken is
not large,--perhaps five or six for the whole company on an average
day,--but the size is sometimes enormous,--nothing under three pounds is
counted,--and they pervade thought and conversation at the Upper Dam to
the exclusion of every other subject. There is no driving, no dancing,
no golf, no tennis. There is nothing to do but fish or die.

At first, Cornelia thought she would choose the latter alternative.
But a remark of that skilful and morose old angler, McTurk, which she
overheard on the verandah after supper, changed her mind.

"Women have no sporting instinct," said he. "They only fish because they
see men doing it. They are imitative animals."

That same night she told Beekman, in the subdued tone which the
architectural construction of the house imposes upon all confidential
communications in the bedrooms, but with resolution in every accent,
that she proposed to go fishing with him on the morrow.

"But not on that pool, right in front of the house, you understand.
There must be some other place, out on the lake, where we can fish for
three or four days, until I get the trick of this wobbly rod. Then I'll
show that old bear, McTurk, what kind of an animal woman is."

Beekman was simply delighted. Five days of diligent practice at the
mouth of Mill Brook brought his pupil to the point where he pronounced
her safe.

"Of course," he said patronizingly, "you have 'nt learned all about it
yet. That will take years. But you can get your fly out thirty feet, and
you can keep the tip of your rod up. If you do that,