and runs canalwise through the fringing woods. But at ordinary
times the water in the Lane, as much of it as there is, finds its way
toward the Brom, owing to the feeding of the Grange Pond by local
streamlets. But in times of rain the current runs the other way. Then
the Backwater runs brown and turgid into the pond till the lilies tug
at their green anchor chains and the Moat itself is lipping full of
black, peaty water from the hills.

To-day as we plunged into the shadow of the woods along the side of the
Backwater, it held no more water than a burn in the summer
heats--little and still clear, the minnows and troutlets balancing and
darting, joggling each other rudely from beneath favourite stones, or
shouldering into well-situated holes in the bank, like people
scrambling for seats at a play. Then a few yards farther on would come
a deep brown pool with a curious greenish opal sheen lying like a scum
on the surface, for all the world like two-coloured silk. This was the
reflection of the leaves above. Very dense they were, so that the
light could hardly filter through between. Along the burnside it was
generally lighter. But the trees clustered deep and thick about the
pools, as I suppose they do all the world over, whenever they get the
chance.

"The water is lower than I have ever seen it!" I said, as it might be,
just for something to say. But Mr. Ablethorpe did not answer a word.
I could see him looking eagerly about him, evidently searching for
something he had seen before, but for the moment could not find again.

I could not for the life of me imagine what it could be, nor yet why he
had been so keen to have me with him. It was not that he was afraid.
That was plain enough. For he had been this way before, and that quite
recently. I knew by his spying this way and that for landmarks. And I
knew quite certain that it was not just that I might give him a hand
with old Caleb Fergusson's harvest that he had asked me off from my
home work, or home play, whichever it might be.

All at once he stopped, sat down on a log, pulled out his knife and
began to whittle at a branch of oak. Whatever it was he was looking
for, he had either found it, or decided to give up the search.

We were sitting on a fallen tree trunk, close to the edge of the
Backwater, and the pool beneath us was almost dry. The Lane ran out of
sight, getting smaller and smaller in what I have heard called
"perspective"--that is, s