those sweet pastures by
the river's bank which, as we have read, delight the simple mind of the
angler, and his float was already out, and bobbing up and down on the
ripples of the stream; and the verdant valley, in which he and his
taciturn companion stood side by side, resounded, from time to time,
with Dangerfield's strange harsh laughter; the cause of which Irons did
not, of course, presume to ask.

There is a church-yard cough--I don't see why there may not be a
church-yard laugh. In Dangerfield's certainly there was an omen--a glee
that had nothing to do with mirth; and more dismaying, perhaps, than his
sternest rebuke. If a man is not a laugher by nature, he had better let
it alone. The bipeds that love mousing and carrion have a chant of their
own, and nobody quarrels with it. We respect an owl or a raven, though
we mayn't love him, while he sticks to his croak or to-whoo. 'Tisn't
pleasant, but quite natural and unaffected, and we acquiesce. All we ask
of these gentlemanlike birds is, that they mistake not their
talent--affect not music; or if they do, that they treat not us to their
queer warblings.

Irons, with that never-failing phantom of a smile on his thin lips,
stood a little apart, with a gaff and landing-net, and a second rod, and
a little bag of worms, and his other gear, silent, except when spoken
to, or sometimes to suggest a change of bait, or fly, or a cast over a
particular spot; for Dangerfield was of good Colonel Venables' mind,
that 'tis well in the lover of the gentle craft to associate himself
with some honest, expert angler, who will freely and candidly
communicate his skill unto him.'

Dangerfield was looking straight at his float; but thinking of something
else. Whenever Sturk met him at dinner, or the club, the doctor's
arrogance and loud lungs failed him, and he fell for a while into a sort
of gloom and dreaming; and when he came slowly to himself, he could not
talk to anyone but the man with the spectacles; and in the midst of his
talk he would grow wandering and thoughtful, as if over some
half-remembered dream; and when he took his leave of Dangerfield it was
with a lingering look and a stern withdrawal, as if he had still a last
word to say, and he went away in a dismal reverie. It was natural, that
with his views about the agency, Sturk should regard him with
particular interest. But there was something more here, and it did not
escape Dangerfield, as, indeed, very little that in