“Fast to the rod.”

“And the rod?”

“Fast to the line!” said Joe, “and following the fish at the rate of ten knots, while I stood on the bank staring in utter astonishment.”

“Then, where was your great success?” demanded Glenn.

“It was a noble bite,” said Joe.

“But you were the bitten one,” remarked Glenn, scanning Joe’s visage, which began to assume a disconsolate cast.

“If I’d only been thinking about such a wapper, and had been on my guard,” said Joe, “splash me if he should ever have got my rod away in that manner—­I’d have taken a ducking first!”

“Have you no more lines?” asked Glenn.

“No,” replied Joe, “none but your’s.”

“You are welcome to it—­but be quick, and I will look on while you have your revenge.”

Joe sprang nimbly up the hill, and in a few minutes returned with fresh tackle and another frog that he found on his way.  They then repaired to the margin of the river; but before Joe ventured to cast out his line again he made the end of the rod fast to his wrist by means of a strong cord he had provided for that purpose.  But now his precaution seemed to have been unnecessary, for many minutes elapsed without any symptoms of success.

Glenn grew impatient and retired a few paces to the base of the cliff, where he reclined in an easy posture on some huge rocks that had tumbled down from a great height, and lay half-imbedded in the earth.  Here he long remained with his eyes fixed abstractedly on the curling water, and meditated on the occurrence he had recently witnessed.  While his thoughts were dwelling on the singular affection and constancy of the Indian girl, and the probable future happiness of her young lord, his reflections more than once turned upon his own condition.  The simple pleasantries that had so often occurred between Mary and himself never failed to produce many unconscious smiles on his lips, and being reciprocated and repeated day after day with increased delight, it was no wonder that he found himself heaving tender sighs as he occasionally pictured her happy features in his mind’s eye.  He now endeavoured to bestow some grave consideration on the tender subject, and to think seriously about the proper mode of conducting himself in future, when he heard the innocent maiden’s clear and inspiring voice ringing down the valley and sinking in soft murmuring echoes on the gliding stream.  Soon his quick ear caught the words, which he recognised to be a short ballad of his own composing, that had been written at Mary’s request.  He then listened in silence, without moving from his recumbent position.

  THE CRUEL MAIDEN.

  I.

  She heard his prayer and sweetly smiled,
  Then frown’d, and laughing fled away;
  But the poor youth, e’en thus beguiled,
      Still would pray.

  II.

  He’d won her heart, but still she fled,
  And laugh’d and mock’d from dell and peak
  While his sad heart, that inward bled,
      Was fit to break!