1 68 ANGLING SKETCHES 



At last his fit of coughing ceased, and a kind 

 of peace came into his face. 



' Allen, my dear old boy,' I said I don't often 

 use the language of affection ' did you never hear 

 that all that stupid story was cleared up ; that 

 everyone knows you are innocent ? ' 



He only shook his head ; he did not dare to 

 speak, but he looked happier, and he put his hand 

 in mine. 



I sat holding his hand, stroking it. I don't 

 know how long I sat there ; I had put my coat 

 and waterproof under him. He was ' wet through,' 

 of course ; there was little use in what I did. 

 What could I do with him ? how bring him to a 

 warm and dry place ? 



The idea seemed to strike him, for he half rose 

 and pointed to the little burnside, across the loch. 

 A plan occurred to me ; I tore a leaf from my 

 sketch-book, put the paper with a pencil in his 

 hand, and said, ' Where do you live? Don't speak. 

 Write.' 



He wrote in a faint scrawl, ' Help me to that 

 burnside. Then I can guide you.' 



