o mess about with an old crock."

"Daddy," said Myra reproachfully, "you're not to call yourself names."

"All right, then; I won't," he laughed. "You young people will excuse
me, I'm sure. I should like to join you; but I have a lot of letters
to write, and I daresay you'd rather be by yourselves. Eh?--you young
dog!"

It was a polite fiction between father and daughter that when the old
fellow felt too unwell to join her or his guests he "had a lot of
letters to write." And occasionally, when he was in the mood to
overtax his strength, she would never refer to it directly, but often
she would remark, "You know you'll miss the post, daddy." And they
both understood. So we set out by ourselves, and I naturally preferred
to be alone with Myra, much as I liked her father. We went out on to
the verandah, and while I unpacked my kit Myra rewound her line, which
had been drying on the pegs overnight.

"Are you content with small mercies, Ron?" she asked, "or do you agree
that it is better to try for a salmon than catch a trout?"

"It certainly isn't better to-day, anyway," I answered. "I want to be
near you, darling. I don't want the distance of the pools between us.
We might walk up to the Dead Man's Pool, and then fish up stream; and
later fish the loch from the boat. That would bring us back in nice
time for dinner."

"Oh! splendid!" she cried; and we fished out our fly-books. Her's was
a big book of tattered pig-skin, which reclined at the bottom of the
capacious "poacher's pocket" in her jacket. The fly-book was an old
favourite--she wouldn't have parted with it for worlds. Having
followed her advice, and changed the Orange I had tied for the "bob"
to a Peacock Zulu, which I borrowed from her, we set out.

"Just above the Dead Man's Pool you get a beautiful view of
Hilderman's hideous hut," Myra declared as we walked along. I may
explain here that "Dead Man's Pool" is an English translation of the
Gaelic name, which I dare not inflict on the reader.

"See?" she cried, as we climbed the rock looking down on the gorgeous
salmon pool, with its cool, inviting depths and its subtle promise of
sport. "Oh! Ronnie, isn't it wonderful?" she cried. "Almost every day
of my life I have admired this view, and I love it more and more every
time I see it. I sometimes think I'd rather give up my life than the
simple power to gaze at the mountains and the sea."

"Why, look!" I exclaimed. "Is that the window you meant?"

"Yes