he exciting ten minutes in the water while voice and presence
and arm had steadied her for the battle.

They walked together up the slope to the big house. A fishing costume is
not a thing of grace, but the one this girl wore could not eclipse the
elastic suppleness of the slender figure or the joy in life that
animated the vivid face with the black curls straying from beneath the
jaunty cap. The long hip waders she wore so briskly gave her the look of
a modern Rosalind. To deny her beauty was easy, but in the soft sifted
moonlight showered down through the trees it was impossible for
Kilmeny's eyes to refuse her an admission of charm. There was a hint of
pleasant adventure in the dusky eyes of this clean-limbed young nymph, a
plastic energy in the provoking dainty face, that stung his reluctant
admiration. She had the gift for comradeship, and with it a freedom of
mind unusual in one of her class.

She ran up the steps of the Lodge lightly and thanked him with a
pleasant "Good-night." As he turned away Kilmeny came face to face with
another fisherman returning from the sport of the night. The man
opposite him was rather short and thickset. In his eyes was a look of
kind shrewd wisdom. Red-faced and white-bearded, he was unmistakably an
Englishman of the upper class.

Miss Dwight introduced him as Lord Farquhar, and the men shook hands.

"Guess what I've got," demanded the young woman, her hands behind her.

"Heaven only knows. It might be anything from the measles to a new
lover," smiled Farquhar.

She flashed upon him the fish that had been hidden behind her waders.

"By Jove! Catch him yourself?"

She nodded, her eyes shining.

Farquhar, very much a sportsman, wanted to know all about it, after
which he insisted on weighing the trout. Jack was dragged into the Lodge
to join in this function, and presently found himself meeting Lady
Farquhar, a pleasant plump lady who did not at all conform to the usual
stage conception of her part. Her smile was warm for this supple
blue-eyed engaging Westerner, but the latter did not need to be told
that behind her friendliness the instinct of the chaperone was alert.
The one swift glance she had thrown at Miss Dwight told him as much.

Into the room drifted presently Miss Seldon, a late novel in her hand.
In contrast with her sheathed loveliness Miss Dwight looked like a young
girl. There was something very sweet and appealing in Moya's slim
indefinite figure of youth, w