And then again, on the dark and wind-driven lake far below him, that small object was still to be made out—like some minute, black, crawling water insect. He took out his glass from its leather case, adjusted it, and placed it to his eye. What was this? In the world suddenly brought near—and yet dimly near, as though a film interposed—he could see that some one was standing up in the stern of the boat, and another crouching down, by his side. Was that a clip or the handle of the landing-net; in other words, was it a salmon or a kelt that was fighting them there? He swept the dull waters of the loch with his glass; but could make out no splashing or springing anywhere near them. And then he could see by the curve of the rod that the fish was close at hand; there was a minute or two longer of anxiety; then a sudden movement on the part of the crouching person—and behold a silver-white object gleams for a moment in the air and then disappears! ’Good!’ he says to himself—with a kind of sigh of satisfaction as if he had himself taken part in the struggle and capture. How peaceful looks the little hamlet of Inver-Mudal! The wild storm-clouds, and the bursts of sunlight, and the howling winds seem to sail over it unheeded; down in the hollow there surely all is quiet and still. And is Meenie singing at her work, by the window; or perhaps superintending Maggie’s lessons; or gone away on one of the lonely walks that she is fond of—up by the banks of the Mudal Water? It is a bleak and a bare stream; there is scarce a bush on its banks; and yet he knows of no other river—however hung with foliage and flowers—that is so sweet and sacred and beautiful. What was it he wrote in the bygone year—one summer day when he had seen her go by—and he, too, was near the water, and could hear the soft murmuring over the pebbles? He called the idle verses MUDAL IN JUNE. _Mudal, that comes from the lonely mere,_ _Silent or whispering, vanishing ever,_ _Know you of aught that concerns us here?—_ _You, youngest of all God’s creatures, a river._ _Born of a yesterday’s summer shower,_ _And hurrying on with your restless motion,_ _Silent or whispering, every hour,_ _To lose yourself in the great lone ocean._ _Your banks remain; but you go by,_ _Through day and through darkness swiftly sailing:_ _Say, do you hear the curlew cry,_ _And the snipe in the night-time hoarsely wailing?_ _Do you watch the wandering hinds in the morn;_ _Do you hear the grouse-cock crow in the heather;_ _Do you see the lark spring up from the corn,_ _All in the radiant summer weather?_ _O Mudal stream, how little you know_ _That Meenie has loved you, and loves you ever;_ _And while to your ocean home you flow,_ _She says good-bye to her well-loved river!—_