In defence of their apathy, it must be admitted that the sport was poor. The weather had been unfavourable, and the brown trout declined to rise; but even in the best of years Lough Aniller, the big lough by the house, was not a good fishing lake. A few rises came to them, which they missed: and they had the poor satisfaction of beholding Mr. Burke land a specimen which weighed not quite a quarter of a pound. It did not seem, to untutored eyes quite worth the candle. “’Tis a poor lake, anyways,” Mr. Burke said. They were paddling home in the setting sun, the water full of bright reflections. “I dunno why the trout wouldn’t be in it: it’s the biggest hereabouts, but they don’t seem wishful for it at all. There’s Lough Nacurra and Lough Anoor—they’re little enough, but you’d get finer fishing in them in a day than in a week of Lough Aniller.” “Why don’t we go there?” spoke Wally, lazily. “There’s no reason in the world why you shouldn’t. Sure, they’re no distance, and the fishing belongs to the house; there’ll not be a rod on them, barring your own.” “What do they mean, Patsy?” Norah asked. Mr. Burke was her instructor in the Irish language, and she thirsted for translations of each unknown word. “Lough Anoor’s the lough of the gold, miss, and Lough Nacurra’s the lough of the Champions. I dunno why they have those names on them; there’s a lot of ould stories goin’. Whatever reason anybody was to give, no one could say it was wrong.” “Well, Lough Aniller means the lough of the Eagle, you said, Patsy, but there don’t seem any eagles about.” “Thrue for ye,” agreed Mr. Burke; “they do not. But I wouldn’t wonder if there was any amount of them here in the ould ancient times.” He scanned the placid waters with disfavour. “There’s one thing they couldn’t call it, and that’s Nabrack—the lough of the Trout!” “They certainly couldn’t—whoever ‘they’ may be,” said Wally, laughing. “There are just about as many trout in this lough as there are in the front garden, I believe. Who’ll come to one of the others to-morrow?—I’ll have to learn their names before I say them in public. I vote for the one that belongs to the Champions!” “Lough Nacurra—ye might do worse,” said Patsy. “’Tis a good little lough, and there’s a small little island in it, that ’ud be a good place for you to be taking your dinners. The boat’s no great thing at all—but she’s better than the one on Lough Anoor.” “What!” exclaimed Mr. Linton. “Is she worse than this one?” The boat on Lough Aniller had not struck the party as an up-to-date craft. “She is,” said Mr. Burke. “But there’s no distance to be pulling her: sure, the lough’s not big enough to go any ways far. If ’twas Lough Anoor, now, there’d be no good in me comin’ with you, for five couldn’t sit in her. Four’ll be all she’ll hold.” “Is she safe?” asked Mr. Linton. “Is it safe? Sure, you wouldn’t sink that one, not if you danced in her,” said Patsy.