Mrs. Elles’ heart leaped, but she controlled her emotions and recalled the busy landlady, who had turned away as if the point was settled. “Stop, Mrs. Watson--I am not sure that Mr. Rivers will like that!” “Hout, lassie, then he’ll just hae to put up wi’ it! Leave him alone; I’ll settle it wi’ him.” “No, no!” dubiously. “But I tell ye, ye must! We canna let ye have the room to-day, and that’s flat!” repeated Mrs. Watson, sturdily, but without acrimony. “Then I won’t dine at all!” Mrs. Elles said, vehemently, but without decision. She took up her hat, however, and walked slowly down the road to the Park Gates, rang the porter’s bell, and was admitted. She went along the Broad Walk and through the yew grove, till she came to the right bank of the Greta, which flows through the Park of Rokeby on its way to join the Tees, just outside its limits. She sat there for the whole of the afternoon, watching the owner of the Park and the Hall, whose smoke she could just see curling through the trees, as he waded about in his own river, in his loose india-rubber leggings, and caught his own trout in calm and contentment. She was surprised to find how little bored she was. She did not intend to be. She made a point of being amused by the varied aspects of nature--free untrammelled exuberant nature--that were being presented to her. It was the very quintessence of wild life that surrounded her now. The ceaseless ripple of the river was relieved by the frequent splash and flicker of the enormous trout that tenanted it, as they rose flippantly to the surface or were dragged there by the imperious rod. Queer cries, that came out of the brake behind her, betokened the sad little dramas of animal life that were going on behind the leafy screen. The squeak of the rabbit at its last stand before the murderous weasel; the scuffle of the little birds upon whom the sparrow-hawk dashed, leaving those sad heaps of grey, white-rooted feathers to tell the tale of rapine, came to her ears, as did the more peaceful coo of the wood-pigeons from the coverts of thorn and hazel on the other and steeper side of the river. “Milk the coo, Katie!” such was Mrs. Watson’s homely interpretation of their cry, and she found herself repeating it over and over again to herself.