the stranger was still fishing, and the old man went on with a
shake of his head.

"He'll come," he said to himself. "Oh, he'll come!"

That very point Hale was debating with himself as he unavailingly
cast his minnow into the swift water and slowly wound it in again.
How did that old man know his name? And would the old savage
really have hurt him had he not found out who he was? The little
girl was a wonder: evidently she had muffled his last name on
purpose--not knowing it herself--and it was a quick and cunning
ruse. He owed her something for that--why did she try to protect
him? Wonderful eyes, too, the little thing had--deep and dark--and
how the flame did dart from them when she got angry! He smiled,
remembering--he liked that. And her hair--it was exactly like the
gold-bronze on the wing of a wild turkey that he had shot the day
before. Well, it was noon now, the fish had stopped biting after
the wayward fashion of bass, he was hungry and thirsty and he
would go up and see the little girl and the giant again and get
that promised dram. Once more, however, he let his minnow float
down into the shadow of a big rock, and while he was winding in,
he looked up to see in the road two people on a gray horse, a man
with a woman behind him--both old and spectacled--all three
motionless on the bank and looking at him: and he wondered if all
three had stopped to ask his name and his business. No, they had
just come down to the creek and both they must know already.

"Ketching any?" called out the old man, cheerily.

"Only one," answered Hale with equal cheer. The old woman pushed