rkable as the beauty of the
face, the soft fire of the dark eyes.

"I had no idea it was so far," said Stafford; "I must have wandered
away from the place. I started fishing on the road down below, and
haven't noticed the distance. Will you tell me the name of this place?"

"Herondale," she replied.

"Thank you," said Stafford. "It's a grand valley and a splendid
stream." She leant forward with her elbow on the saddle and her chin in
the small gauntletted hand, looked up the valley absently and then back
at him, with a frank speculation in her eyes which was too frank and
calm to be flattering, and was, indeed, somewhat embarrassing.

"I suppose she takes me for a tourist, or a cheap tripper," thought
Stafford, with an uncomfortable kind of amusement; uncomfortable,
because he knew that this girl who was acting as shepherd in an old
weather-stained habit and a battered hat, was a lady.

She broke the silence again.

"Have you caught many fish?" she asked.

Up to now they had been separated by the stream; Stafford seized the
opportunity, waded across in a fairly shallow place, and, opening the
lid of his basket, showed her the contents.

"Yes, you have done fairly well," she said; "but the trout run larger
higher up the valley. By the way," her brows came together slightly,
though the very faintest of smiles for an instant curved the delicately
cut lips, "do you know that you are poaching?"

This would have been a staggerer coming from a mere keeper, but from
this exquisitely beautiful, this calm statue of a girl, it was simply
devastating. Stafford stared at her.

"Doesn't this river belong to Sir Joseph Avory?" he asked.

"No," she replied, uncompromisingly. "Sir Joseph Avory's river is
called the Lesset water, and runs on the other side of that hill."

She raised her hunting-crop and pointed with an exquisite movement, as
graceful as that of a Diana, to the hill behind her.

"I am very sorry," said Stafford. "I thought this was his river. I met
him in London and got permission from him. Do you know to whom this
water belongs?"

"To Mr. Heron, of Herondale," she replied.

"I beg Mr. Heron's pardon," said Stafford. "Of course I'll put up my
rod at once; and I will take the first opportunity of apologising for
my crime; for poaching is a crime, isn't it?"

"Yes," she assented, laconically.

"Can you tell me where he lives--where his house is?"

She raised her whip again and pointed to an opening on