"You know I can’t stay here if you go," said Meredyth, in the same grave way: indeed, he did not at all like this position in which he found himself. And then he said: "Come, Fred, don’t make too much of a trifle——" "Do you call that a trifle?" the other demanded. "It is an indication of the spirit of the whole place; and more than that, it shows you the miserable, underhand enmity of this very fellow who has been pretending to make friends with my sister. It is not on my account—it is on your account—that I am indignant. I asked you to come here. This is pretty treatment, is it not?—and a pleasant intimation of what we may expect all the way through, if we stay on——" "Of course we must stay on," said Meredyth. "I would not for anything have your sister vexed. I would not even tell her of what has just happened. Why should you? Neither you nor I care so much for the fishing——" "That is not the point, Frank," said young Stanley. "Reel up—and we will go back to the house. I want Mamie to understand what all her pampering of this place has resulted in—nothing but miserable, underhand spite and enmity. And if we do stop on, do you think I’d be frightened away from the fishing? Not if I had to get water-bailiffs up from Inverness, and give them each a double-barrelled breech-loader and a hiding-place in the woods. Pitching stones into salmon pools and then running away is a very pretty amusement; but that skulking and poaching thief would sing another tune if he were brought down by a charge of No. 6 shot!" And he was in the same indignant mood whey they got back to Lochgarra House. He went straight to his sister. He told her the story—and in silence awaited her answer. What was it to be?—an excuse? an apology? a promise of inquiry and stricter government? But for a second or two Mary Stanley was thoroughly alarmed. She recalled with a startling distinctness her own experience—her wandering up the side of the river—her coming upon the almost invisible poacher in the mysterious dusk of the twilight—the strange and vivid circles of blue-white fire on the dark surface of the stream whenever he moved—then his noiseless escape into the opposite woods; and she recalled, too, her own sudden suspicions as to who that ghostly fisherman was. Since then she had seen a good deal of Donald Ross, and she had gradually ceased to connect him in any way with that illegal haunting of the salmon-stream; but this new incident—following upon her brother’s protests and remonstrances—frightened her, for one breathless moment. Then she strove to reassure herself. The young man who had sate by her side at dinner a few evenings ago—proud, reserved, and self-possessed, and yet timidly respectful towards herself and grateful for the attention she paid him—was not the kind of person to go spitefully throwing stones into a salmon-pool in order to destroy a stranger’s fishing. It was absurd to think so!