awyer his ring,
saying that since his hands were fit to dispense with gloves, they must
also be strong enough to bear its weight. He accepted the ring with a
sigh, and silently retired to his chamber. Before turning in for the
night, he looked in upon Wilkinson, whom he found awake. After enquiries
as to his arm and general health, he said: "Wilks, my boy, congratulate
me on being an ass; I've lost the finest woman in all the world by my
own stupidity." His friend smiled at him, and answered: "Do not be
down-hearted, Corry; I will speak to Ceci--Miss Du Plessis I mean, and
she will arrange matters for you." The lawyer fervently exclaimed: "God
bless you, Wilks!" and withdrew, not a little comforted. We cannot
intrude into the apartment of the young ladies, but there was large
comfort in their conversation for a person whose Christian name was
Eugene. If he only had known it!

By the constable, Ben Toner, and other messengers, Mr. Bigglethorpe had
acquainted his somewhat tyrannical spouse that he was staying for a
while at the Flanders lakes to enjoy the fishing. Mr. Rigby had brought
from the store his best rods and lines and his fly-book. He was,
therefore, up early on Thursday morning, lamenting that he was not at
Richards, whence he could have visited the first lake and secured a mess
of fish before breakfast. He was sorting out his tackle in the office,
when Marjorie, an early riser, came in to see if Uncle John was there.
When she found out the occupant, she said: "Come along, Mr. Biggles, and
let us go fishing, it's so long before breakfast." Fishing children
could do anything with Bigglethorpe; he would even help them to catch
cat-fish and suckers. But he had an eye to business. "Marjorie," he
asked, "do you think you could find me a pickle bottle, an empty one,
you know?" She thought she could, and at once engaged 'Phosa and 'Phena
in the search for one. A Crosse and Blackwell wide-mouthed bottle,
bearing the label "mixed pickles," which really means gherkins, was
borne triumphantly into the office. Mr. Bigglethorpe handled it
affectionately, and said: "Put on your hat, Marjorie, and we'll go
crawfish hunting." Without rod or line, the fisherman, holding the
pickle bottle in his left hand, and taking Marjorie by the right, walked
down to the creek. On its bank he sat down, and took off his shoes and
socks, an example quickly and joyfully followed by his young companion.
Then he splashed a little water on his hea