Lifting the improvised fishing tackle of his childhood and looking at it critically the man said: "I suppose, now, that if this rod were a split bamboo, and this thread were braided silk, and this pin with its wiggly piece of worm were a "Silver Doctor" or a "Queen of the Waters" or a "Dusty Miller" or a "Brown Hackle"; and if this stream were an educated stream, with educated trout; and the house up there were a club house; and your dear old aunt, who is watching to see that I don't eat you, were a lot of whist playing old men; I suppose you would think it all right and a proper sport for a man. But for me--I can't see much difference--except that, just now--" he carefully lowered his hook into the water--"just now, I prefer this. In fact," he added meditatively, "I would rather do this than anything else in the world." The color in the woman's face deepened. After a little, he looked cautiously around to see her bending over the daisy chain. A moment later, under pretense of examining his bait, he stole another look. Then, in spite of his declaration, he abandoned his sport to stretch himself full length on the ground at her side. She did not look at him but bent her head low over the wealth of white and gold blossoms in her lap; and the man noticed, with an odd feeling of pleasure, the beautiful curve of her white neck from the soft brown hair to the edge of her dress low on the shoulder. Then, with a sly smile, as the boy of their Yesterdays might have done, he stealthily raised the slender willow twig and with the tip cautiously attempted to lift the thin golden chain that she always wore loosely about her throat with the locket or pendant concealed by her dress. She clutched the chain with a frightened gesture and a little exclamation. "You must not--you must not do that." The man laughed aloud as the mischievous boy would have laughed. But the woman, with flaming cheeks, caught the twig from his hand and threw it into the creek. "If you are not good, I shall call auntie," she threatened. At which he looked ruefully toward the porch and became very serious. "Do you know that I am going away to-morrow?" he asked. "And leave your paradise for your dear public?" she said mockingly. "The public will be glad." "And you, will you care?" "I'm going back to my work, too, next week," she replied. "But will you care to-morrow?" he persisted. The woman's fingers, busy with the daisy chain, trembled. The man, when she still did not answer his question, arose and, picking up his hat and her sewing, held out his hand. She looked up into his face questioningly. "Come"--he said with a grave smile--"come." Still without speaking, she gave him her hand and he helped her to her feet; and, at her touch, the man again felt that thrill of pleasure.