but he seemed
to forget all about her, as wading slightly forward into the stream he
cast his fly in slow, unerring circuit. How big he looked, how strong
and masterful; how graceful were the lines of his tall lean figure!
From where she sat Margot could see the dark profile beneath the
deerstalker cap, the long straight nose, the firmly-closed lips, the
steady eyes. It was the face of a man whom above all things one could
trust. "A poor dumb body," Mrs Macalister had dubbed him, scornfully;
but Margot had discovered that he was by no means dumb, and that once
the first barriers were broken, he could talk with the best, and bring
into his conversation the added eloquence of expression. She recalled
the lighting of his absorbed eyes as he had looked down at her own white
hand, and flushed at the remembrance.

Margot had often pitied the wives and sisters of enthusiastic fishermen
who had perforce to sit mum-chance in the background, but to-day she was
conscious of no dissatisfaction with her own position. She possessed
her full share of the girl's gift of building castles, and it would not
be safe to say how high the airy structure had risen before suddenly the
rod bent, and the Editor's intent face lit up with elation. The fish
was hooked; it now remained to "play" with him, in professional
parlance, till he could be landed with credit to himself and his captor.

For the next half-hour Margot was keenly, vividly interested in studying
the tactics of the game. The reel screamed out, as the captive made a
gallant dash for liberty; the Editor splashed after him, running hastily
by the side of the river, now reeling in his line, now allowing it full
play; and at the distance of a few yards she ran with him, now holding
her breath with suspense, now clasping her hands in triumph, until at
last, his struggles over, the captive floated heavily upon the stream.

It was the end for which she had longed throughout thirty of the most
exciting moments that she had ever known; but now that victory was
secured, woman--like she began to feel remorse.

"Oh, is it dead? Have you killed it? But it's horrid, you know--quite
horrible! A big strong man like you, and that poor little fish--"

"Not little at all! It's a good six-pounder," protested the fisherman,
quick to defend his sport against depreciation. "No--he's not dead yet,
but he soon will be. I will just--"

"Wait! Wait! Let me get out of the way." Margot flew