legs, and swiftly beating hearts, we scampered over the smooth
turf, and I threw a triumphant look over my shoulder at him, as I hurled
myself upon the mossy bole of the old tree. Then I saw that Angel had
stopped stock still and was staring open-mouthed beyond me. I turned. Then,
I, too, stared open-mouthed. Trust The Seraph for falling on his feet! What
though his rod had been filched--here he was, without a moment's loss,
plunged in a new adventure!

III

He was seated beneath an apple tree, on the bank of the stream in deep
conversation with a most remarkable old man, who was fishing industriously
with the very rod The Seraph so lately had bewailed. He was an
astonishingly old man, with hair and beard as white as wool, wreathing a
face as pink as the apple-blossoms that fell about him. Cautiously we drew
near, quite unobserved by the two who seemed utterly absorbed in their
occupation of watching the line as it dipped into the stream. Now we could
see that the old man's clothes were ragged, and that he had taken off his
boots to ease his tired feet, the toes of which protruded from his socks,
even pinker than his face.

He was speaking in a full soft voice with an accent which was new to us.

"Yon trout," said he, "was in a terrible frizz wi' the hook gnawing his
vitals, and he swum about among the reeds near the bank in a manner to
harrer your feelings. The line got tangled in the growing stuff, and I, so
quick as an otter, pounced on him, and had him on the bank afore 'ee could
say 'scat,' and there he lies breathing his last, and blessing me no doubt
for relieving him in his shameful state."

"I fink he's weally my twout," said The Seraph. "I caught him first you
see."

"That pint might take a terr'ble understanding lawyer to unravel," replied
the old man, "but sooner than quarrel in such an unsporting fashion, I'll
give 'ee the trout, though I had had a notion of roasting him to my own
breakfast."

The Seraph stroked the glistening side of the recumbent trout admiringly;
he poked his plump forefinger into it's quivering pink gill. The result was
startling. The trout leaped into the air with a flourish of silvery tail;
then fell floundering on The Seraph's bare knees. Our junior, seized with
one of his unaccountable impulses, grasped him by the middle and hurled him
into the stream. A second more and the trout was gone, leaving only a thin
line of red to mark his passing. Angel and I ran forward to prote