There was a short, somewhat embarrassed silence while Margot kept her eyes fixed on the scene of the late meal, the two smouldering fires, the piled-up hampers and baskets, and the Editor drummed with his fingers, and chewed his moustache.

“Er-” he began haltingly at last.  “How do you think it has gone?”

“You mean the-”

“Picnic!  Yes.  My first entertainment.  I feel responsible.  Think they enjoyed it at all?”

“I’m sure of it.  Immensely!  They thawed wonderfully.  Think of the duet!  To hear Mr Macalister singing was a revelation.  It has been a delightful change from the ordinary routine.  And the trout!  The trout was a huge success.  How amiable of it to let itself be caught so conveniently!”

The Editor smiled, with the conscious pride of the experienced fisherman.

“There was not much `let’ about it.  He led me a pretty dance before he gave up the struggle, but I was on my mettle, and bound to win.  Do you know anything about fishing, Miss Vane?”

“I?” Margot laughed happily.  “Just as much as I have gleaned from watching little boys fish for minnows in Regent’s Park!  I don’t think I have ever particularly wanted to know more.  It seems so dull to stand waiting for hours for what may never come, not daring to speak, in case you may scare it away!  What do you think about all the time?”

He turned and looked at her at that, his lips twitching with amusement.  Seated on the ground as they were, the two faces were very near together, and each regarded the other with the feeling of advancing a step further in the history of their acquaintance.

“He really is young!” decided Margot, with a sigh of relief.  “It’s only the frown and the stoop and the eyeglasses which make him look as if he were old.”

George Elgood looked into the pink and white face, and his thoughts turned instinctively to a bush of briar roses which he had seen and admired earlier in the day.  So fresh, and fair, and innocent!  Were all young girls so fragrant and flower-like as this?  Then he thought of the little prickles which had stung his hand as he had picked a bud from the same bush for his buttonhole, and smiled with latent mischief.  After all, the remembrance did not lessen the likeness.  Miss Margot looked as if she might-under provocation-display a prickle or two of her own!

“What do I think about?” he repeated slowly.  “That is rather a difficult question to answer; but this good little river, I am thankful to say, does not leave one much time for thought.  There’s a little channel just beyond the bridge that is a favourite place for sea trout.  Would you like to see it?”

“Might I?  Really?  Oh, please!” cried Margot, all in a breath.  Her very prettiest “please,” accompanied by a quick rise to her feet which emphasised the eagerness of her words.

George Elgood lost no time in following her example, and together they walked briskly away towards the head of the dell; that is to say, in the opposite direction to that taken by the other members of the party.  George Elgood had picked up his fishing-tackle as he went-by an almost unconscious impulse, as it seemed-and unconsciously his conversation drifted to the all-absorbing topic.

“If we take a sharp cut across this hill-I’ll give you a hand down the steep bits!-we hit the river at the best spot.  You have been grumbling at the wet weather, but you will see the good effects of rain, from a fisherman’s point of view.  The river is full from bank to bank, rushing down to the sea.  It is a fine sight, a river in flood!  I don’t know anything in Nature which gives the same impression of power and joy.  That’s where Norway has the pull.  Her mountains can’t compare with the Swiss giants, but everywhere there is a glorious wealth of water.  No calm sleeping lakes, but leaping cataracts of rivers filling whole valleys, as my little stream here fills its small banks; roaring and dashing, and sparkling in the sun.  Norway is perfection, from a fisherman’s point of view; but there is plenty of sport to be found nearer home.  I have had no cause to complain for the last fortnight.  This way-to the right!  It’s just a little rough going at first, but it cuts off a good mile.  You are sure you don’t mind?”

Margot’s laugh rang out jubilantly.  She scrambled up the steep mountain path with nimble feet, easily out-distancing her guide, until the hilltop was reached, and she stood silhouetted against the sky, while the wind blew out her white skirts, and loosened curling tendrils of hair.

Below could be traced the course of the river, winding in and out in deep curves, and growing ever broader and fuller with every mile it traversed.  The sunlight which played on it, making it look like a silver ribbon, played also on the yellow gorse and purple heather; on the long grey stretch of country in the distance; on that softer blue plain joining the skyline, which was the sea itself.  A breath of salt seemed to mingle with the aromatic odour of the heather, adding tenfold to its exhilaration.

As Margot stood holding on to her hat, and waiting for her companion’s approach, she felt such a glorious sense of youth and well-being, such an assurance of happiness to come, as is seldom given to mortals to enjoy.  It was written in her face, her radiant, lovely young face, and the light in the eyes which she turned upon him made the shy scholar catch his breath.

“You did that well!  Magnificently well!” he cried approvingly.  “But you must take the descent carefully, please.  There are one or two sudden dips which might be awkward if you were not prepared.  I know them all.  Shall I,-would you,-will you take my hand?”

“Thank you!” said Margot, and laid her hand in his with an acceptance as simple as if he had been her own brother.  It was a very pretty little hand, in which its owner felt a justifiable pride, and it lay like a white snowflake in the strong brown palm stretched out to meet it.

For just a moment George Elgood kept his fingers straight and unclasped, while he gazed downward at it with kindling eyes, then they closed in a tight, protecting clasp, and together they began the descent.

For the most part it was easy enough, but the awkward places came so often and unexpectedly that it did not seem worth while to unloose that grasp until the bottom was safely reached.  Margot had a dream-like sensation of having wandered along for hours, but in reality it was a bare ten minutes before she and her guide were standing on level ground by the side of the rushing river.

“Thank you!  That was a great help,” she said quietly.  George Elgood, with a sudden access of shyness, made no reply, but busied himself with preparation.

“I’ll just make another cast, to show you how one sets to work.  I take a pretty big fly-the trout like that.  These are the flies-all sizes, as you see.  I am rather proud of them, for I make them myself in the winter months, when one can enjoy only the pleasures of anticipation.  It’s a good occupation for a leisure hour.”

“You make them yourself!” Margot repeated incredulously, stretching out her hand to receive one of the hairy morsels on her palm, and bending over it in unaffected admiration.  “But how clever of you!  How can you have the patience?  It must be dreadfully finicky work!”

“It is a trifle `finicky,’ no doubt!” He laughed over the repetition of the word.  “But it’s a refreshing change to work with one’s hands sometimes, instead of one’s brain.  Now shall I give you your first lesson in the art?  Don’t imagine for a moment that fishing means standing still for the hour together, with nothing more exciting than the pulling-in of your fish the moment he bites.  That’s the idea of the outsider who does not know what adventure he is losing, what hope and suspense, what glorious triumph!  Like most things, it’s the struggle that’s the glory of the thing, not the prize.  Shall I soak this cast for you, and give you your first lesson?”

“Oh, please!  I’d love it!  It would be too kind of you!” cried Margot eagerly.  She had not the faintest idea what “soaking a cast” might mean, and listened in bewilderment to a score of unfamiliar expressions; but it is safe to affirm that she would have assented with equal fervour to almost any proposition which her companion made.

There and then followed the first lesson on the seemingly easy, but in reality difficult, task of “casting,” the Editor illustrating his lesson by easy, graceful throws, which Margot tried in vain to imitate.  She grew impatient, stamping her feet, and frowning fiercely with her dark eyebrows, while he looked on with the amused indulgence which one accords to a child.

“Are you always in such a hurry to accomplish a thing at once?”

“Yes, always!  It’s only when you don’t care that you can afford to wait.”

“It sometimes saves time in the end to make haste slowly!”

“Oh, don’t confound me with proverbs!” cried Margot, turning a flushed, petulant face at him over her shoulder.  “I know I am impetuous and imprudent, but-the horrid thing will twist up!  Don’t you think I might have a demonstration this time?  Let me watch, and pick up hints.  I’m sure I should learn more quickly that way, and it would be less boring for you.  Please!”

At that he took the rod, nothing loth, and Margot seated herself on the ground, a trifle short of breath after her exertions, and not at all sorry to have the chance of looking on while some one else did the work.  She was intently conscious of her companion’s presence, 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 with her fingers in her ears, then pulled them out to cry-“Is it done?  Is it over?  Can I come back?”

“Yes; it is all right.  I’ve put him in my bag.  You will appreciate him better in his table guise.  I’ll take him back as a peace-offering to Mrs McNab, for her own evening meal.  We have already had our share at the pic-”

Suddenly his hands fell to his sides, he straightened himself, and turned his eyes upon her, filled with puzzle and dismay.

“The pic-”

“-Nic!” concluded Margot faintly.  Rosy red were her cheeks; a weight as of lead pressed on her eyelids, dragging them down, down, beneath his gaze.  “I-I-forgot!  We were to have gone to find them!  Do you suppose they are-hiding still?”

He laughed at that, though in somewhat discomfited fashion.

“Rather not!  Given us up long ago.  It must be getting on for an hour.  I can’t think how I came to forget-”

Margot glanced at him shyly beneath her curling lashes.

“It was the fish!  A fisherman can’t be expected to remember anything when he is landing a trout!” she suggested soothingly.  Nevertheless she remembered with a thrill of joy that his forgetfulness had dated back to a time when there had been no fish in prospect.  “Do you suppose they have gone home?”

“We will go and see.  From that mound over there we can overlook the path to the inn.  Perhaps we had better keep a little in the background!  It would be as well that they should not see us, if they happened to look up-”

If it were possible to feel a degree hotter, Margot felt it at that moment, as she followed George Elgood up the little hillock to the right, and, pausing just short of the top, peered stealthily around.  A simultaneous exclamation broke from both lips; simultaneously they drew back, and crouched on their knees to peer over the heather.

There they went!-straggling in a row in the direction of the inn, the party of revellers who had been so basely deserted.

First, the clergyman, with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bent in thought; a pensive reveller, this, already beginning to repent a heavy, indigestible meal; next, Mrs Macalister, holding her skirts in characteristic fashion well up in front and sweeping the ground behind; a pace or two in the rear, her spouse, showing depression and weariness in every line of his body.  Yet farther along the two young men carrying the empty hampers; last of all, at quite a little distance from the rest, the figure of the Chieftain stepping out with a tread even more conspicuously jaunty than usual, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his head turned from side to side, as if curiously scanning the hillsides.

At one and the same moment Margot and the Editor ducked their heads, and scrambled backwards for a distance of two or three yards.  There was a moment’s silence, then instinctively their eyes met.  Margot pressed her lips tightly together, George Elgood frowned, but it was all in vain; no power on earth could prevent the mischievous dimples from dipping in her cheeks; no effort could hide the twinkle in his eyes-they buried their heads in their hands, and shook with laughter!

When at last composure was regained, George Elgood pulled his watch from his pocket, glanced at the time, and cried eagerly-

“There is still an hour before we need be back for dinner.  As well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb.  Let us go back to the river, and try our luck once more!”