“My father told me that he had asked you to come and fish, but I did not expect to meet you so early.  I—­I fear that I am disturbing you,” and she made as though she would be going.

Arthur felt that this was a contingency to be prevented at all hazards.

“You are Miss Caresfoot,” he said, hurriedly, “are you not?”

“Yes—­I am Angela; I need not ask your name, my father told it me.  You are Mr. Arthur Heigham.”

“Yes.  And do you know that we are cousins?” This was a slight exaggeration, but he was glad to advance any plea to her confidence that occurred to him.

“Yes; my father said something about our being related.  I have no relations except my cousin George, and I am very glad to make the acquaintance of one,” and she held out her hand to him in a winning way.

He took it almost reverently.

“You cannot,” he said with much sincerity, “be more glad than I am.  I, too, am without relations.  Till lately I had my mother, but she died last year.”

“Were you very fond of her?” she asked, softly.

He nodded in reply, and, feeling instinctively that she was on delicate ground, Angela pursued the conversation no further.

Meanwhile Aleck had awoke from a comfortable sleep in which he was indulging on the other stone seat, and, coming forward, sniffed at Angela and wagged his tail in approval—­a liberty that was instantly resented by the big raven, who had now been joined by another not quite so large.  Advancing boldly, it pecked him sharply on the tail—­a proceeding that caused Master Aleck to jump round as quickly as his maimed condition would allow him, only to receive a still harder peck from its companion bird; indeed, it was not until Angela intervened with the bough of hawthorn that they would cease from their attack.

“They are such jealous creatures,” she explained; “they always follow me about, and fly at every dog that comes near me.  Poor dog! that is the one, I suppose, who killed Snarleyow.  My father told me all about it.”

“Yes, it is easy to see that,” said Arthur, laughing, and pointing to Aleck, who, indeed, was in lamentable case, having one eye entirely closed, a large strip of plaster on his head, and all the rest of his body more or less marked with bites.  “It is an uncommonly awkward business for me, and your cousin will not forgive it in a hurry, I fancy; but it really was not poor Aleck’s fault—­he is gentle as a lamb, if only he is let alone.”

“He has a very honest face, though his nose does look as though it were broken,” she said, and, stooping down, she patted the dog.

“But I must be going in to breakfast,” she went on, presently.  “It is eight o’clock; the sun always strikes that bough at eight in spring,” and she pointed to a dead limb, half hidden by the budding foliage of the oak.

“You must observe closely to have noticed that, but I do not think that the sun is quite on it yet.  I do not like to lose my new-found relations in such a hurry,” he added, with a somewhat forced smile, “and I am to go away from here this evening.”