Now, several times during the morning they had come in view of the Aivron, winding far below them through the wide strath, or narrowing to a thread as it rose towards the high horizon-line in the west; and always, when there was a momentary chance, Lionel’s eye had sought these distant sweeps and bends for some glimpse of the lonely angler-maiden, and sought in vain.  The long valley seemed empty; and some little feeling of shyness prevented his asking his companions to point out the Junction Pool, whither, as he understood, she had been bound in the morning.  And as they now approached the appointed place of meeting, he was quite disturbed by the fancy that she might have strayed away into unknown regions and be absent from this general picnic; and the moment they came in sight of the group of people who were strolling about, or looking on while the servants spread out the table-cloth on the heather and brought forth the various viands, one swift glance told him she was not present.  Here was a disappointment!  He wanted to tell her how he had got on, under her kind instruction—­this was his own explanation of the pang her absence caused him; but presently he had found another; for Lady Rosamund was grouping the people for her sketch; and what would the sketch be without Honnor Cunyngham in it?  He made bold to say so.

“Oh, you can’t depend on Honnor,” Lady Adela said.  “She may have risen a fish, or may have got hold of one.  But if you want to know whether she is likely to turn up, you might go out to that point, Mr. Moore, and then you’ll be able to see whether she is coming anywhere near the Bad Step.”

Willingly enough he went down through the scattered birch-trees to a projecting point overlooking the river from a very considerable height; and there, right below him, he discovered what it was they called the Bad Step.  The precipice on which he stood going sheer down into the Aivron, the path along the stream left the banks some distance off, came up to where he stood, and then descended again by a deep gorge probably cut by water-power through the slaty rock.  And even as he was regarding this twilit chasm it suddenly appeared to him that there were two figures away down there, crossing the burn at the foot; and then one of them, in gray—­unmistakably the fisher-maiden herself—­began the ascent.  How she managed to obtain a footing he could not make out; for the path was no path, but merely a zig-zag track on the surface of the loose shingle—­shingle so loose that he could see it yield to her every step, while the debris rolled away down to the bed of the burn.  But still she fought her way upward, and at last she stood face to face with him, smiling, but a little breathless.

“That’s a frightful place to come up,” said he.

“Oh, it’s nothing, when you know it,” she said, lightly.  “Tell me, how did you get on this morning?”

“Thanks to you, I think I did pretty well,” said he.