"Yes, we are all right," said Mr Willows, smiling and holding out his hand; "and this is nice and neighbourly of you, a stranger, Mr Manners, to speak like this." "Neighbourly?" said Manners, colouring through his well-tanned skin. "Oh, I don't know about that. Only, you see, coming down year after year, and seeing so much of the boys, one seems to know you all so well." "Exactly," said the Vicar, smiling; "Willows is quite right; it is neighbourly, or we will say brotherly, if you like." "No, no, no!" cried the artist. "Here, I'll tell you what to say-- nothing. But I am heartily glad there is no serious mischief done." "None at all," said Willows. "Rather good. The big pool was getting very low. Now we shall be all right for months. The water's falling fast, and in half an hour I shall have the waste water-sluices closed, and by mid-day the stream will be running much as usual." "That's right," cried Manners. "I say, boys; lucky we had our fishing last night. Why, every trout will have been washed down-stream and out to sea." "Not one," cried Will. "Will they, father?" "No, my boy; I don't suppose they will; they'll have got into the eddies and backwaters, driven down a good deal here and there; but their natural habit is to make their way higher and higher up to the shallows in search of food. There, Mr Manners, I don't think that you'll miss any of your sport. My experience is that places which swarm with trout one day are empty the next, and vacant spots where you have thrown a fly in vain will another time give you a fish at nearly every cast." "Well," said Manners, "as I have had my fright for nothing, my nature's beginning to assert itself, and the main question now with me is breakfast. Now, boys, will you come and join me? I can't smell them, but I can almost venture to say for certain that Mrs Drinkwater is frying trout. What do you say?" "No, thank you, Mr Manners," replied Will; "my father will want me, perhaps, to give orders to the men; but Josh has got to pass the cottage." "Of course," cried Manners; "and you might honour me too, Mr Carlile." "Thanks, no," said the Vicar. "Josh can stay, and he will be glad. I'll go on, for they would be waiting breakfast at home." The artist gave a tug at a thick chain, and dragged out a heavy, old-fashioned, gold watch. "Five o'clock," he cried. "We should be done by six. Why, you'd be quite ready for a second breakfast, sir, by eight or nine." "Do come, father." "Very well," said the Vicar, smiling; and the artist carried them off, leaving Willows with his son to walk slowly on to the broad dam where the foam-covered water brimmed the stones, as if only wanting the impulse of a puff of wind to sweep over the top. They stopped about the middle, to stand looking up the vale. "I say, father, do you feel that?" cried Will. "What?--the quivering sensation, my boy?" "Yes; it is just as if the water was shaking the stones all loose."