g close beside her.

She pushed away the screen of leaves and stretched out full length,
looking down into the water.

A trout lay there; his eyes were shining with an opal tint, his scarlet
spots blazed like jewels.

And as she lay there, her bright hair tumbled about her face, she heard,
above the river's monotone, a sharp, whiplike sound--swis-s-sh--and a
silvery thread flashed out across her vision. It was a fishing-line and
leader, and the fisherman who had cast it was standing fifty feet away
up-stream, hip-deep in the sunlit water.

Swish! swish! and the long line flew back, straightened far behind him,
and again lengthened out, the single yellow-and-gilt fly settling on the
water just above the motionless trout, who simply backed off
down-stream.

But there were further troubles for the optimistic angler; a tough alder
stem, just under water, became entangled in the line; the fisherman gave
a cautious jerk; the hook sank into the water-soaked wood, buried to the
barb.

"Oh, the deuce!" said the fisherman, calmly.

Before she could realize what he was about, he had waded across the
shallows and seized the alder branch. A dash of water showered her as he
shook the hook free; she stood up with an involuntary gasp and met the
astonished eyes of the fisherman.

He was a tall, sunburned young fellow, with powerful shoulders and an
easy, free-limbed carriage; he was also soaking wet and streaked with
mud.

"Upon my word," he said, "I never saw you! Awf'lly sorry; hope I haven't
spoiled your sport--but I have. You were fishing, of course?"

"No, I was only looking," she said. "Of course I've spoiled your sport."

"Not at all," he said, laughing; "that alder twig did for me."

"But there was a trout lying there--I saw him; and the trout saw me, so
of course he wouldn't rise to your cast. And I'm exceedingly sorry," she
ended, smiling in spite of herself.

Her hair was badly rumpled; she had been crying, and he could see it,
but he had never looked upon such tear-stained, smiling, and dishevelled
loveliness.

As he looked and marvelled, her smile died out; it came to her with a
distinct shock that this water-logged specimen of sun-tanned manhood
must be Crawford.

"_Are_ you?" she said, scarcely aware that she spoke.

"What?" he asked, puzzled.

"Mr. Crawford?"

"Why, yes--and, of course, you are Miss Castle," he replied, smiling
easily. "I saw your name in the guest-book this morning. Awf'lly glad