ostman brought such a thing into the village again he would never
allow a letter to be delivered on his estate. But with all this bluster,
the common people knew that their landlord wished them well, and they
were ready to do anything for him.

One night, while he was dragging his trout stream, he fell into the
ugliest part of the water. He had hardly had time to come to the surface
when six men were in after him, and he had to thank each one of the six
in the same formal terms before any of them would consent to resign the
whole credit of the rescue.

His eldest son was killed in battle. Before departing for the fatal
campaign, the young officer had dragged the burn, and placed all the
brown trout that he caught in a great tarn that lay amongst the low
hills on the moor. The fish increased and multiplied until the little
lake was swarming. Big fat trout used to roll easily round on summer
evenings, and make lazy lunges at the flies. It would have been easy to
have taken twenty dozen out of the lake in a day; but the Squire said he
did not want the pond fished because his boy had stocked it. So no
native ever cast a line there, although the temptation was almost
unbearable.

A very smart young person came from the neighbouring market town once,
and tried the pond with the fly. He had just reached his third dozen
when he was caught by old Sam, the gamekeeper, and three fishermen. They
tied a cart-rope round his waist and threw him into the pond; they then
pitched the whole of the trout back into the water, and after that they
dragged the trespasser out, floured him carefully, and sent him on his
road.

These incidents are not idyllic, but they serve to show what kind of a
hold a strong, just man may obtain upon simple people if he only shows
that he is ready to work for them. The whole of the tenantry and the
villagers knew that their stern old master gave up his life for their
sake. They knew that he worked like a common bailiff; they knew that he
drank nothing but water; they knew that he put by money every year with
the sole object of making improvements which might better their
condition, and they respected him accordingly.

When he reached the age of ninety-six years he was no longer capable of
guiding his pony: the pony guided him. On one afternoon the beast turned
just at the end of the Fisher Row and walked the old man quietly back
to the stables. He could not dismount without assistance, and he had to
wait