pigeon pies. It's poor trash, I expect; I'm afraid you can't eat it;
but it is as good as anybody's, I suppose."

We told her we should devour it all, but must first catch some fish;
and we joined the gentlemen on the veranda. A boat was ready for us.
Laura, however, refused to go in it. It was too small; it was wet; she
wanted to walk on the bridge; she could watch us from that; she wanted
some flowers, too. Like many who are not afraid of the ocean, she held
ponds and lakes in abhorrence, and fear kept her from going with us.
Harry Lothrop offered to stay with her, and take lines to fish from the
bridge. She assented, and, after we pushed off, they strolled away.

The lake was as smooth and white as silver beneath the afternoon sun
and a windless sky; it was bordered with a mound of green bushes,
beyond which stretched deep pine woods. There was no shade, and we soon
grew weary. Jack Parker caught all the fish, which flopped about our
feet. A little way down, where the lake narrowed, we saw Laura and
Harry Lothrop hanging over the bridge.

"They must be interested in conversation," I thought; "he has not
lifted his line out of the water once."

Redmond, too, looked over that way often, and at last said,--

"We will row up to the bridge, and walk back to the house, if you,
Maurice, will take the boat to the little pier again."

"Oh, yes," said Maurice.

We came to the bridge, and Laura reached out her hand to me.