DAYS 163 



bells nodded in the breeze, or lay pros- 

 trate in the long, rich grass. The dis- 

 tant mountains were veiled in a violet 

 mist, and through the " honied heather 

 the little stream lay like a ribbon of the 

 heaven's own blue, quivering idly in the 

 summer heat. A profound peace dwelt 

 upon all things, and the old fisherman 

 felt that it was good to have lived on 

 such a day. 



Before noon the trout had almost 

 ceased rising, yet "Old Peter" fished 

 slowly on, knowing that the higher up 

 he went so much the better would the 

 sport become. A few hours later the sun 

 became obscured by a passing cloud, and 

 the latter drifted along until it hung 

 over the mountain-tops. The violet mist 

 now changed to gray, and the stream 

 lost its brightness. A slight breeze sud- 

 denly swept across the moor, tossing the 

 hummocks of heather as it passed, dying 

 away again with a sough in the distance. 



