ng would start again while the fisherman would stand quiet
and waiting for a while--and then he would begin to wind again. In her
wonder, she rose unconsciously to her feet and a stone rolled down to
the ledge below her. The fisherman turned his head and she started to
run, but without a word he turned again to the fish he was playing.
Moreover, he was too far out in the water to catch her, so she advanced
slowly--even to the edge of the stream, watching the fish cut half
circles about the man. If he saw her, he gave no notice, and it was
well that he did not. He was pulling the bass to and fro now through the
water, tiring him out--drowning him--stepping backward at the same time,
and, a moment later, the fish slid easily out of the edge of the water,
gasping along the edge of a low sand-bank, and the fisherman reaching
down with one hand caught him in the gills. Then he looked up and
smiled--and she had seen no smile like that before.

"Howdye, Little Girl?"

One bare toe went burrowing suddenly into the sand, one finger went to
her red mouth--and that was all. She merely stared him straight in the
eye and he smiled again.

"Cat got your tongue?"

Her eyes fell at the ancient banter, but she lifted them straightway and
stared again.

"You live around here?"

She stared on.

"Where?"

No answer.

"What's your name, little girl?"

And still she stared.

"Oh, well, of course, you can't talk, if the cat's got your tongue."

The steady eyes leaped angrily, but there was still no answer, and he
bent to take the fish off his hook, put on a fresh minnow, turned his
back and tossed it into the pool.

"Hit hain't!"

He looked up again. She surely was a pretty little thing--and more, now
that she was angry.

"I should say not," he said teasingly. "What did you say your name was?"

"What's YO' name?"

The fisherman laughed. He was just becoming accustomed to the mountain
etiquette that commands a stranger to divulge himself first.

"My name's--Jack."

"An' mine's--Jill." She laughed now, and it was his time for
surprise--where could she have heard of Jack and Jill?

His line rang suddenly.

"Jack," she cried, "you got a bite!"

He pulled, missed the strike, and wound in. The minnow was all right, so
he tossed it back again.

"That isn't your name," he said.

"If 'tain't, then that ain't your'n?"

"Yes 'tis," he said, shaking his head affirmatively.

A long cry came down the ravine:

"J-u-n-e