“Oh, that's beyond dispute. There's a case that we all know about--all here in Charlemont--the case of Joe Barney's millpond. Barney lost one of his children and one of his negroes in the pond--drowned as a judgment, they say, for fishing a Sunday. That didn't make any difference with the fish: you could catch them there just the same as before. But when old Mrs. Prey fell in, crossing the dam, the case was altered. You might sit there for hours and days, night and day, and bob till you were weary; devil a bite after that! Now, what could make the difference but the tongue? Mother Frey had a tongue of her own, I tell you. 'Twas going when she fell in, and I reckon's been going ever since. She was a sulphury, spiteful body, to be sure, and some said she poisoned the fish if she didn't scare them. To my thinking, 'twas the tongue.” Stevens had been something seduced from his gravity by the blunt humor and unexpected manner of Ned Hinkley; besides, having been served, if not saved, by his hands, something, perhaps, of attention was due to what he had to say; but he recollected the assumed character which he had to maintain--something doubtful, too, if he had not already impaired it in the sight and hearing of those who had come so opportunely but so unexpectedly to his relief, He recovered his composure and dignity; forbore to smile at the story which might otherwise have provoked not only smile but corresponding answer; and, by the sudden coolness of his manner, tended to confirm in Ned Hinkley's bosom the half-formed hostility which the cause of his cousin had originally taught him to feel. “I'll lick the conceit out of him yet!” he muttered, as Stevens, turning away, ascended to the spot where William Hinkley stood. “I owe you thanks, Mr. Hinkley,” he began. The young man interrupted him. “You owe me nothing, sir,” he answered hastily, and prepared to turn away. “You have saved my life, sir.” “I should have saved your dog's life, sir, in the same situation. I have done but an act of duty.” “But, Mr. Hinkley--” “Your horse is ready for you, sir,” said the young man, turning off abruptly, and darting up the sides of the hill, remote from the pathway, and burying himself in the contiguous forests. “Strange!” exclaimed the neophyte--“this is very strange!” “Not so strange, stranger, as that I should stand your groom, without being brought up to such a business for any man. Here's your nag, sir.” “I thank you--I would not willingly trespass,” he replied, as he relieved our angler from his grasp upon the bridle. “You're welcome without the thanks, stranger. I reckon you know the route you come. Up hill, follow the track to the top, take the left turn to the valley, then you'll see the houses, and can follow your own nose or your nag's. Either's straight enough to carry you to his rack. You'll find your clothes at your boarding-house about the time that you'll get there.”