"I am very sorry," said Stafford. "I thought this was his river. I met
him in London and got permission from him. Do you know to whom this
water belongs?"

"To Mr. Heron, of Herondale," she replied.

"I beg Mr. Heron's pardon," said Stafford. "Of course I'll put up my
rod at once; and I will take the first opportunity of apologising for
my crime; for poaching is a crime, isn't it?"

"Yes," she assented, laconically.

"Can you tell me where he lives--where his house is?"

She raised her whip again and pointed to an opening on the left of the
valley, an opening lined on either side by a wild growth of magnificent
firs.

"It is up there. You cannot see it from here," she said. As she spoke,
she took her chin from her hand and sat upright, gathered up her reins,
and, with another of the faint inclinations of her head, by way of
adieu, rode on up the valley.

Stafford stood with his cap in his hand looking after her for a moment,
in a brown study; and, still watching the back of the slight figure
that sat the big horse with the grace of an Indian maiden, he began to
take down his rod, and, having packed it in his case and fastened his
basket, he followed her along the broken bank of the stream. Presently,
when she had gone some little distance, he heard the dogs start barking
again, the crack of her whip rang like a pistol-shot, and her bell-like