The call was imperative; but for once Rollo paid no heed. He had the bit of something white in his mouth in a trice; the next moment, with much sagacity, he was fawning and fondling the little hand laid upon his tawny coat.
"She was young and fair."
Instinct told Miss Rawdon it would be better to come from behind her retreat; so she stood forth in the flicker of sunlight and shadow, a maiden revealed.
Her hat was in her hand, her brown hair was all tumbled and blown; the folds of her white gown hung simple and straight round her slight, lissom figure. She was young, and fair, and sweet, and the dog, fawning upon her, had nestled his muzzle in her hand.
The fisherman forgot the already startled fish; he left his line in the bushes and came towards her.
"Down, Rollo—down, you dog, you—"
Why do we love to picture the birth of the greatest joy which earth has to give out in the open, where the wind. comes laden with the songs of a thousand birds, the scents of a million of flowers that have lived and loved and died? For the sake of our poor humanity, let us still think that to love purely is to draw nearer to God—is a step forward upon the way that shall lead to His disclosing. It is at the time of this awakening of our greatest capabilities for joy or sorrow that we are most willing to believe Him near—then, and at the time of that other awakening which we are apt to call death. In both cases the issues are so tremendous, the weakness of our finality turns outward, seeking help from the Infinite.
Like death, love is no respecter of persons, time, or place—he comes upon us when and how and where he wills; but, if we may choose, let it be far from the jarring discords of the world, the flesh, and the devil—for one moment let us enter Eden, let us stand, pure, holy, unstained before God.
The fisherman had no idea that anything tremendous was happening to him as he stood, hat in hand, apologizing for his dog. Only the day had suddenly grown more fair, his heart younger, God nearer.
Ellinor thought, "What will Mrs. Montresor say? He is worth looking at." And she also felt happier; but in the meantime she must speak.
"Oh, it doesn't signify at all, thank you," looking at her soiled gown; "I love dogs, but I am afraid I have spoiled your sport."
"I have had none to-day—the sun is too bright."
The dog had by this time retreated to his master, and Ellinor felt that she must make a move in the direction of her chaperon.
"My friend is up there," she said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the trees, "and I must go back to her. I hope you will have better sport—though not a change of weather," she added, laughing gaily, "for the sake of our luncheon."
She turned away; but to lose her just then was not within the calculations of the fisherman.
"Forgive me," he said, with an air of profound anxiety, "but there is a bull up there on the hill. He is, I know, apt to take umbrage at strangers—in fact, he belongs to
