er fell over many a granite shelf and in the desolation lay great
and small pools.

Brendon began to descend, where a sheep track wound into the pit. A
Dartmoor pony and her foal galloped away through an entrance
westerly. At one point a wide moraine spread fanwise from above into
the cup, and here upon this slope of disintegrated granite more
water dripped and tinkled from overhanging ledges of stone. Rills
ran in every direction and, from the spot now reached by the
sportsman, the deserted quarry presented a bewildering confusion of
huge boulders, deep pits, and mighty cliff faces heaving up to
scarps and counter-scarps. Brendon had found the guardian spirit of
the place on a former visit and now he lifted his voice and cried
out.

"Here I am!" he said.

"Here I am!" cleanly answered Echo hid in the granite.

"Mark Brendon!"

"Mark Brendon!"

"Welcome!"

"Welcome!"

Every syllable echoed back crisp and clear, just tinged with that
something not human that gave fascination to the reverberated words.

A great purple stain seemed to fill the crater and night's wine rose
up within it, while still along the eastern crest of the pit there
ran red sunset light to lip the cup with gold. Mark, picking his way
through the huddled confusion, proceeded to the extreme breadth of
the quarry, fifty yards northerly, and stood above two wide, still
pools in the midst. They covered the lowest depth of the old
workings, shelved to a rough beach on one side and, upon the other,
ran thirty feet deep, where the granite sprang sheer in a precipice
from the face of the little lake. Here crystal-clear water sank into
a dim, blue darkness. The whole surface of the pools was, however,
within reach of any fly fisherman who had a rod of necessary
stiffness and the skill to throw a long line. Trout moved and here
and there circles of light widened out on the water and rippled to
the cliff beyond. Then came a heavier rise and from beneath a great
rock, that heaved up from the midst of the smaller pool, a good fish
took a little white moth which had fluttered within reach.

Mark set about his sport, yet felt that a sort of unfamiliar
division had come into his mind and, while he brought two tiny-eyed
flies from a box and fastened them to the hairlike leader he always
used, there persisted the thought of the auburn girl--her eyes blue
as April--her voice so bird-like and untouched with human
emotion--her swift, delicate tread.

He be