a mile and a
half from camp. The mosquitoes were pretty bad near the willows along
the shore, but as he got out farther they annoyed him less and with the
coming of darkness they ceased to trouble.

The fish were feeding and he had a few strikes. Half a dozen eight and
nine-inch trout went into his creel, but though he was fishing along the
edge of the deep water, the big fellows would not be tempted. His watch
showed a quarter to ten by the moon when at last he hooked one worth
while.

He was now down by the riffles not far from the Lodge. A long cast
brought him what fishermen along the Gunnison call a bump. Quietly he
dropped his fly in exactly the same spot. There was a tug, a flash of
white above the water, and, like an arrow, the trout was off. The reel
whirred as the line unwound. Kilmeny knew by the pressure that he had
hooked a good one and he played it carefully, keeping the line taut but
not allowing too much strain on it. After a short sharp fight he drew
the fish close enough to net the struggler. Of the Lochleven variety, he
judged the weight of the trout to be about two pounds.

He would have liked to try another cast, but it was ten o'clock, the
limit set by law. He waded ashore, resolved to fish the riffles again
to-morrow.

Next day brought Kilmeny the office of camp cook, which was taken in
turn by each of the men. Only two meals a day were eaten in camp, so
that he had several hours of leisure after the breakfast things were
cleared away. In a desultory fashion he did an hour or two of fishing,
though his mind was occupied with other things.

The arrival of the party at the Lodge brought back to him vividly some
chapters of his life that had long been buried. His father, Archibald
Kilmeny, had married the daughter of a small cattleman some years after
he had come to Colorado. Though she had died while he was still a child,
Jack still held warmly in his heart some vivid memories of the
passionate uncurbed woman who had been his mother.

She had been a belle in the cow country, charming in her way, beautiful
to the day of her death, but without education or restraint. Her husband
had made the mistake of taking her back to Ireland on a visit to his
people. The result had been unfortunate. She was unconquerably
provincial, entirely democratic, as uncultured as her native columbine.
Moreover, her temper was of the whirlwind variety. The staid life of the
old country, with its well-ordered distincti