i68 ANGLING SKETCHES 



At last his fit of coughing ceased, and a kind 

 of peace came into his face. 



' xA-llen, 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 ho-w long I sat there ; I had put m}- coat 

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

 of course ; there \\-as little use in what I did. 

 What could I do with him 1 — \-\o\\ bring him to a 

 \\-arm 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, ' \Miere do you live ? Don't speak. 

 Write.' 



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

 burnside. Then I can guide you.' 



