magnificent frame, and a heart as light and buoyant as a cork;
therefore, though an artist or a poet would have been thrilled to the
marrow by the wild grandeur of the secluded valley and the grimly
towering hills, and would have longed to put them on canvas or into
verse, Stafford only felt suddenly grave, and as if it were playing it
low down to throw an artificial fly, even of the best make, in such a
spot.

But in a moment or two the sportsman's instinct woke in him; a fish
stirred in a pool under a boulder, and pulling himself together he
threw a fly over the rise. As he did so, the brooding silence was
broken by the deep musical bark of a collie, followed by the sharp yap,
yap of a fox-terrier. The sudden sound almost startled Stafford; at any
rate, caused him to miss his fish; he looked up with a little frown of
annoyance, and saw on the break of the opposite hill some of the
mountain sheep which had stared at him with haughty curiosity running
down towards the green bottom of the valley followed by the two dogs.

A moment afterwards a horse and rider were silhouetted on the extreme
top of the high hill. The horse was large whereby the rider looked
small; and for a moment the pair were motionless, reminding Stafford of
a bronze statue. The hill was fearfully steep, even the dogs ran with a
certain amount of caution, and Stafford wondered whether the rider--he
couldn't see if it was man or boy--would venture down the almost
precipitous slope. While he was wondering, the small figure on the
horse sent up a cry that rang like the note of a bell and echoed in
sweet shrillness down the hill and along the valley. The collie stopped
as if shot, and the fox-terrier looked round, prepared to go back to
the rider. It looked for a moment as if the rider were going down the
other side of the hill again; then suddenly, as if he detected