way to his naturally blithe humour; and between every mouthful he rattled
or rather drolled on, now infant-like, now sage-like. He cast out the
rays of his liberal humour, careless where they fell,--on the child, on
the dog, on the fishes that played beneath the wave, on the cricket that
chirped amidst the grass; the woodpecker tapped the tree, and the
cripple's merry voice answered it in bird-like mimicry. To this riot of
genial babble there was a listener, of whom neither grandfather nor
grandchild was aware. Concealed by thick brushwood a few paces farther
on, a young angler, who might be five or six and twenty, had seated
himself, just before the arrival of our vagrant to those banks and
waters, for the purpose of changing an unsuccessful fly. At the sound of
voices, perhaps suspecting an unlicensed rival, for that part of the
stream was preserved,--he had suspended his task, and noiselessly put
aside the clustering leaves to reconnoitre. The piety of Waife's simple
grace seemed to surprise him pleasingly, for a sweet approving smile
crossed his lips. He continued to look and to listen. He forgot the
fly, and a trout sailed him by unheeded. But Sir Isaac, having probably
satisfied his speculative mind as to the natural attributes of minnows,
now slowly reascended the bank, and after a brief halt and a sniff,
walked majestically towards the hidden observer, looked at him with great
solemnity, and uttered an inquisitive bark,--a bark not hostile, not
menacing; purely and dryly interrogative. Thus detected, the angler
rose; and Waife, whose attention was directed that way by the bark, saw
him, called to Sir Isaac, and said politely, "There is no harm in my dog,
sir."

The young man muttered some inaudible reply, and, lifting up his rod as
in sign of his occupation or excuse for his vicinity, came out from the
intervening foliage, and stepped quietly to Waife's side. Sir Isaac
followed him, sniffed again, seemed satisfied; and seating himself on his