"We had not the right kind of dog," said Mr. Carleton.

"We had the kind that is always used here," said Rossitur; "nobody knows
anything about a Cocker in America."

"Ah, it was too wet," said Mr. Ringgan. "I could have told you that. There
has been too much rain. You wouldn't find a woodcock in that swamp after
such a day as we had a few days ago. But speaking of game, Mr. Rossitur, I
don't know anything in America equal to the grouse. It is far before
woodcock. I remember, many years back, going a grouse shooting, I and a
friend, down in Pennsylvania,--we went two or three days running, and the
birds we got were worth a whole season of woodcock.--But gentlemen, if you
are not discouraged with your day's experience and want to try again,
_I'll_ put you in a way to get as many woodcock as will satisfy you--if
you'll come here to-morrow morning I'll go out with you far enough to shew
you the way to the best ground _I_ know for shooting that game in all this
country; you'll have a good chance for partridges too in the course of the
day; and that ain't bad eating, when you can't get better--is it, Fairy?"
he said, with a sudden smiling appeal to the little girl at his side. Her
answer again was only an intelligent glance.

The young sportsmen both thanked him and promised to take advantage of
his kind offer. Fleda seized the opportunity to steal another look at the
strangers; but meeting Mr. Carleton's eyes fixed on her with a remarkably
soft and gentle expression she withdrew her own again as fast as
possible, and came to the conclusion that the only safe place for them
was the floor.

"I wish I was a little younger and I'd take my gun and go along with you
myself," said the old gentleman pleasantly; "but," he added sighing,