LOVE AND ANGLING. 



227 



We fish steadily towards the poplar walk, 

 and down to where part of the Wimple is 

 turned towards a mill-beck. You can hear 

 the mill drumming and throbbing clearly 

 enough. 



Kate rose a fine fish. 



" Throw a little above, cousin !" 



The lady needs no advice on this score. 

 Her line floats out as lightly as the threads of 

 a gossamer that shake in the glare of a summer 

 morning from the hedgerows. With a heavy 

 roll and a deep suck the fly is taken, and the 

 reel gives a sharp warning that the fish is of no 

 mean proportions. 



" Willie, you had better run out and scoop 

 him into the landing-net, the place is full of 

 weeds, and I am afraid of his fouling the line 

 in them." 



I step into the water. It is only a couple 

 of feet deep, so that my virtue, if it be a virtue, 

 of gallantry is not severely tested. Kate plays 

 the trout skilfully towards me, and in a few 

 moments he is tossing in the meshes. Our 

 luck, however, is apparently exhausted by this 

 capture. We meet with nothing for an hour, 



Q 2 



