"There, then, this one throw and I must go," said the girl, her cheeks burning, and her head seeming to swim, for she was conscious of nothing--running river, the foam and swirl, the glorious landscape of rugged glen side, and the bright sun gilding the heathery earth upon which she stood--conscious of nothing save the fact that Chris Lisle was by her, and that his words seemed to thrill her to the heart, while in spite of herself he seemed to have acquired a mastery over her which it was sweet to obey. "Well back," he cried; "now then, a good one." It was not a good cast, being a very clumsy one, for the fly fell with a splash right out in a smooth, oily looking patch of water behind some stones. But, as is often the case, the tyro is more successful than the tried fisherman. The fly had no sooner touched the water than there was a rise, a singing whirr from the winch, and Chris shouted aloud with joy. "There!" he cried. "You have him. First lesson." "Have I caught it?" "Yes, yes; hold up the point of your rod." Claude immediately held it down, and the line went singing out, till Chris darted close behind his pupil and seized the rod, just over her hands, raising the top till it bent nearly double. "A beauty!" he cried excitedly. "You lucky girl!" "Thank you. That's right. Now, take the rod and pull it out." "No, no," he said, with his lips close to her ear, and she trembled more and more as she felt his crisp beard tickle the back of her neck, and his strong arms tightly press hers to her sides; "you must land him now." Away darted the salmon wildly about the pool, but Claude could not tell whether it was the excitement caused by the electric messages sent through the line, or by the pressure of Chris Lisle's hands as he held hers to the rod. "Mary, come and see Mr Lisle catch this salmon," she cried huskily; but Mary only turned over a leaf, and seemed more deaf than ever, while the fish tugged and strained. "Mr Lisle, loose my hands now. This is absurd. What are you doing?" "Telling you I love you," he whispered, in spite of himself, for the time had come, "Claude, dearest, better than my life." "No, no; you must not tell me that," she said, half tearfully, for the declaration seemed to give her pain. "I must. The words have come at last." "And you have lost your fish," cried Claude for the line had suddenly become slack. "But have I won you?" "No, no. And pray let me go now." "No?" There was so much anguish in the tone in which that one little word was spoken, that it went right to Claude's heart, and as if involuntarily, she added quickly,-- "I don't know." "Claude, dearest," he whispered, and his voice trembled as the words were breathed in her ear, "for pity's sake don't trifle with me." "I am not trifling with you. I told you the truth. I don't know." "Ah, that's not catching salmon," came sharply from behind them. "Claude, dear, don't listen to him. He's a wicked fortune-hunter."