hes, bringing forth the remark from Josh that they were
getting it warmly higher up in the hills.

Possibly he alluded to the lightning, for flash after flash divided the
heavens in zig-zag lines, though none seemed to come near them, and they
were soon after tramping on, wet-footed only, back towards Vicarage,
cottage, and mill.

"I say, hark at the fall!" cried Will, as they neared the spot where
they had picked up their friend.

"Yes, it is coming down," said Josh. "Well, your father wanted it."

"Yes," said Will; "the dam was getting low. I say, Mr Manners, I told
old Mother Waters to get her frying-pan ready, for there'd be some
fish."

"Yes, and you were right this time," said the artist; "but I'm not going
to take in all these. Here, Will, pick out four brace of the best."

"Shan't!" said Will, shortly. "We get quite as many as we want. Take
them all in yourself. One moment--send Mr Carlile up some instead.
Here, come on; it's going to rain again. My! Isn't the fall thundering
down!"

Will was right. Another heavy shower was coming over from the hills;
but it did not overtake the party before they had all reached home, and
then Nature made up for a long dry time by opening all her reservoirs,
to fill pool, gully, and lynn, the waters roaring for hours down the
echoing vale, till the next morning the placid stream was one foaming
torrent that seemed to threaten to bear away every projecting rock that
stood in its way, while every sluice was opened at the mill to relieve
the pressure of the overburdened dam.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

A NIGHT GOSSIP.

As has been pointed out, the artist was a quiet man, and the tranquil
life of the little village was exactly to his taste. Mrs Drinkwater
looked well after his few wants, and until the disturbance at the mill,
when Drinkwater had been turned off, there had been nothing to trouble
him. Since that occurrence, however, he had frequently come across his
landlady with traces of tears in her eyes, and that evening when after
parting with the two lads he reached the pretty cottage, she came out to
meet him at the gate.

"Oh, Mr Manners, sir," she said, "I'm afraid I'm afraid--"

"Afraid what of, Mrs Drinkwater?"

"I'm afraid that something's happened to my man. He has not been home
to-day."

The artist led the poor woman into the kitchen.

"Sit down, Mrs Drinkwater," he said, kindly. "Now just listen to me.
I, too, am deeply concerned about Drinkw