systematically, with a light and long "cast" which had made him famous
with the brethren of the craft, and presently he landed a glittering
trout, which, though only a pound in weight, was valued by Stafford at
many a pound in gold. The fish began to rise freely, and he was so
engrossed in the sport that he did not notice that Howard's prophecy
had come true, that the mist had swept over the landscape again, and
that it was raining, if not exactly cats and dogs, yet hard enough to
make even the opposite bank a blur in his vision.

But Stafford was utterly indifferent to rain and mist while the trout
were rising, and his basket was half full before he looked around him.
It is wonderful, when you are fishing, how great a distance you can
walk without noticing it. He had followed the winding course of the
stream until it had left the road far behind and struck into a valley,
the wildness, the remoteness of which was almost awe-inspiring; and he
stood still for a moment and looked up at the sky into which the tall,
sharp peaks of the hills lost themselves. The stream, broken by huge
boulders, rumbled with a soft roar which was the only sound that broke
the stillness. It was the silence, a profound stillness, which makes
one feel as if one has wandered into an unknown world newly made and as
yet untouched by the foot of man, unsullied by his presence.

Stafford could not have quoted a verse of poetry to save his life; it
wasn't in his line; he could ride straight, was a first-rate shot,
waltzed like an angel, and so far his dictionary did not contain the
word "fear;" but he knew nothing of poetry or art, and only liked some
kinds of music, amongst which, it is to be feared, "Soldiers of the
Queen," and the now much-abused chorus from "Faust," ranked high in his
estimation. He was just simply a healthy young Englishman, clean-limbed
and clean-minded, with a tremendous appetite for pleasure, a