they told her he was dead; yes'm."

VI

Towards evening Langham waded across the river, drew in his dripping
line, put up his rod, and counted and weighed his fish. Then, lighting a
pipe, he reslung the heavy creel across his back and started up the
darkening path. From his dripping tweeds the water oozed; his shoes
wheezed and slopped at every step; he was tired, soaked, successful--but
happy? Possibly.

It was dark when the lighted windows of the lodge twinkled across the
hill; he struck out over the meadow, head bent, smoking furiously.

On the steps of the club-house Colonel Hyssop and Major Brent greeted
him with the affected heartiness of men who disliked his angling
methods; the steward brought out a pan; the fish were uncreeled,
reweighed, measured, and entered on the club book.

"Finest creel this year, sir," said the steward, admiringly.

The Major grew purple; the Colonel carefully remeasured the largest
fish.

"Twenty-one inches, steward!" he said. "Wasn't my big fish of last
Thursday twenty-two?"

"Nineteen, sir," said the steward, promptly.

"Then it shrank like the devil!" said the Colonel. "By gad! it must have
shrunk in the creel!"

But Langham was in no mood to savor his triumph. He climbed the stairs
wearily, leaving little puddles of water on each step, slopped down the
hallway, entered his room, and sank into a chair, too weary, too sad
even to think.

Presently he lighted his lamp. He dressed with his usual attention to
detail, and touched the electric button above his bed.

"I'm going to-morrow morning," he said to the servant who came; "return
in an hour and pack my traps."

Langham sat down. He had no inclination for dinner. With his chin
propped on his clinched hands he sat there thinking. A sound fell on his
ear, the closing of a door at the end of the hall, the padded pattering
of a dog's feet, a scratching, a whine.

He opened his door; the bull-terrier trotted in and stood before him in
silence. His Highness held in his mouth a letter.

Langham took the note with hands that shook. He could scarcely steady
them to open the envelope; he could scarcely see to read the line:

"Why are you going away?"

He rose, made his way to his desk like a blind man, and wrote,

"Because I love you."

His Highness bore the missive away.

For an hour he sat there in the lamp-lit room. The servant came to pack
up for him, but he sent the man back, saying that he _might_ change his