ascetic in faith, but with the kindest, most indulgent heart when
one finds it; the gentle old Quakeress with placid, unwrinkled brow
and silvery hair; Presbyterian, Methodist, and Baptist,--we were
all one that night. The old angler did not suffer--we were so glad
of that! But he did not appear to know us, and his talk seemed
strange. It rambled on quietly, softly, like one of his own
mountain brooks, babbling of green fields, of sunny summer days, of
his favorite sport, and ah! of other things. But he was not
speaking to us. A sudden, awed hush and thrill came over us as,
bending to catch the low words, we all at once understood what only
the bishop put into words as he said, half to himself, in a sudden,
quick, broken whisper, "God bless the man, he 's talking to his
Master!"

"Yes. sir, that 's so," went on the quiet voice; "'t was on'y a
dog sure nuff; 'twa'n't even a boy, as ye say, an' ye ast me to be
a fisher o' men. But I haint had no chance for that, somehow;
mebbe I wa'n't fit for 't. I 'm on'y jest a poor old fisherman,
Fishin' Jimmy, ye know, sir. Ye useter call me James--no one else
ever done it. On'y a dog? But he wa'n't jest a common dog, sir;
he was a fishin' dog. I never seed a man love fishin' mor 'n
Dash." The dog was in the room, and heard his name. Stealing to
the bedside, he put a cold nose into the cold hand of his old
friend, and no one had the heart to take him away. The touch
turned the current of the old man's talk for a moment, and he was
fishing again with his dog friend. "See 'em break, Dashy! See 'em
break! Lots on 'em to-day, aint they? Keep still, there 's a good
dog, while I put on a diffunt fly. Don't ye see they 're jumpin'
at them gnats? Aint the water jest 'live with 'em? Aint it
shinin' an' clear an'--" The voice faltered an instant, then went