ing it. He had followed the winding course of the
stream until it had left the road far behind and struck into a valley,
the wildness, the remoteness of which was almost awe-inspiring; and he
stood still for a moment and looked up at the sky into which the tall,
sharp peaks of the hills lost themselves. The stream, broken by huge
boulders, rumbled with a soft roar which was the only sound that broke
the stillness. It was the silence, a profound stillness, which makes
one feel as if one has wandered into an unknown world newly made and as
yet untouched by the foot of man, unsullied by his presence.

Stafford could not have quoted a verse of poetry to save his life; it
wasn't in his line; he could ride straight, was a first-rate shot,
waltzed like an angel, and so far his dictionary did not contain the
word "fear;" but he knew nothing of poetry or art, and only liked some
kinds of music, amongst which, it is to be feared, "Soldiers of the
Queen," and the now much-abused chorus from "Faust," ranked high in his
estimation. He was just simply a healthy young Englishman, clean-limbed
and clean-minded, with a tremendous appetite for pleasure, a
magnificent frame, and a heart as light and buoyant as a cork;
therefore, though an artist or a poet would have been thrilled to the
marrow by the wild grandeur of the secluded valley and the grimly
towering hills, and would have longed to put them on canvas or into
verse, Stafford only felt suddenly grave, and as if it were playing it
low down to throw an artificial fly, even of the best make, in such a
spot.

But in a moment or two the sportsman's instinct woke in him; a fish
stirred in a pool under a boulder, and pulling himself together he
threw a fly over the rise. As he did so, the brooding silence was
broken by the deep musical bark of a collie, followed by the sharp yap,
yap of a fox-terrier. The sudden sound almost startled Stafford; at any
rate, caused him to miss his fish; he looked up with a little frown of
annoyance, and saw on the break of the opposite hill some of the
mountain sheep which had stared at him with haughty curiosity running
down towards the green bottom of the valley followed by the two dogs.

A moment afterwards a horse and rider were silhouetted on the extreme
top of the high hill. The horse was large whereby the rider looked
small; and for a moment the pair were motionless, reminding Stafford of
a bronze statue. The hill was fearfully steep, even the dog