There had been crickets droning somewhere, and a tinkling brook that murmured not far off, and no other sound save now and then a falling stick or bit of branch from some high tree top hurtling down, until, with the advent of that dog there had been a tiny human stir, an almost imperceptible sound of giving attention, and her eyes had been fastened on the gray-brown back, the tousled bright head topped by the torn old baseball cap just a few steps away in the dim shadowed aisle down which she was looking. At first she scarcely recognized it as not a part of the woods, so still it sat, that square, young back in its faded flannel shirt, held in a listening attitude. Then gradually she had become aware of the boy’s presence, of the fishing rod in his hand, of the bank that he must be sitting on which had seemed but a level stretch to her first vision. She had turned a quick glance to Aunt Mary, but Aunt Mary only looked up an instant, paused to recognize that there was some one there, smiled knowingly and went on with the story. It must have been an hour they sat thus listening to the reading, the boy and the fishing rod not moving, the little girl watching with fascinated, dreamy eyes as if she were looking at a picture that might come alive any minute, and then suddenly something happened. The rod bent quickly down with a jerk, the boy’s arm went out with a quick, involuntary motion, and a fish swept up from below somewhere in a great circle and landed floundering on the grassy bank. Joyce sat up quickly with round eyes watching the boy’s manœuvres with the fish, and Aunt Mary stopped reading and looked on with interest too. The boy looked up at last shame-faced and flushed: “Aw, gee!” he said, “I didn’t go to interrupt you. That fish just got on my hook an’ I pulled it before I thought. That’s a cracker-jack story you’re reading.” “Why, I’m glad to be interrupted by such an interesting happening,” Aunt Mary answered him. “What a beautiful fish! What kind is it?” “That’s a trout. You don’t find many of ’em any more. They been all fished out. Want it? I c’n find some more when I want ’em.” “Oh, thank you, I couldn’t take your fish,” said Aunt Mary with a smile, “But I’ve enjoyed seeing you catch it. You better take it home to your mother.” The boy’s head bowed a little lower and he said in a low, gruff voice: “Haven’t got any mother. She’s dead. They don’t want to bother with fish at home. D’you like me to cook it for you? They’re awful good cooked outdoors like this right on the coals.” He began to gather sticks and twigs together, and placed them in a little pile. “Well, that certainly would be wonderful,” said Aunt Mary smiling, “Then you can take lunch with us. We always bring along enough for a guest--” The boy looked up wistfully and grinned, and then was off for more sticks.