“I’ll try something new on you, Allie,” he muttered, and the boy in him that would never grow into a man meant to be serious even in his fun.

Allie sat in the shady place under the low pine where the brook spilled out of the big spring.  She drooped and appeared oblivious to her surroundings.  A stray gleam of sunlight, touching her hair, made it shine bright.  Neale’s quick eye took note of the fact that she had washed the blood-stain from the front of her dress.  He was glad.  What hope had there been for her so long as she sat hour after hour with her hands pressed to that great black stain on her dress—­that mark where her mother’s head had rested?  Neale experienced a renewal of hope.  He began to whistle, and, drawing his knife, he went into the brush to cut a fishing-pole.  The trout in this brook had long tempted his fisherman’s eye, and upon this visit he had brought a line and hooks.  He made a lot of noise all for Allie’s benefit; then, tramping out of the brush, he began to trim the rod within twenty feet of where she sat.  He whistled; he even hummed a song while he was rigging up the tackle.  Then it became necessary to hunt for some kind of bait, and he went about this with pleasure, both because he liked the search and because, out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Allie was watching him.  Therefore he redoubled his efforts at pretending to be oblivious of her presence and at keeping her continually aware of his.  He found crickets, worms, and grubs under the dead pine logs, and with this fine variety of bait he approached the brook.

The first cast Neale made fetched a lusty trout, and right there his pretensions of indifference vanished, together with his awareness of Allie’s proximity.  Neale loved to fish.  He had not yet indulged his favorite pastime in the West.  He saw trout jumping everywhere.  It was a beautiful little stream, rocky, swift here and eddying there, clear as crystal, murmurous with tiny falls, and bordered by a freshness of green and gold; there were birds singing in the trees, but over all seemed to hang the quiet of the lonely hills.  Neale forgot Allie—­forgot that he had meant to discover if she could be susceptible to a little neglect.  The brook was full of trout, voracious and tame; they had never been angled for.  He caught three in short order.

When his last bait, a large and luscious grub, struck the water there was a swirl, a splash, a tug.  Neale excitedly realized that he had hooked a father of the waters.  It leaped.  That savage leap, the splash, the amazing size of the fish, inflamed in Neale the old boyish desire to capture, and, forgetting what little skill he possessed, he gave a mighty pull.  The rod bent double.  Out with a vicious splash lunged the huge, glistening trout, to dangle heavily for an instant in the air.  Neale thought he heard a cry behind him.  He was sitting down, in awkward posture.  But he lifted and swung.  The line snapped.  The fish dropped in the grass and began to thresh.  Frantically Neale leaped to prevent the escape of the hugest trout he had ever seen.  There was a dark flash—­a commotion before him.  Then he stood staring in bewilderment at Allie, who held the wriggling trout by the gills.