The world and Mr.Stanford went remarkably well with each other, and whistling all the way, he reached his destination in half an hour--a clear, silvery stream, shadowed by waving trees and famous in fishing annals.

He flung himself down on the turfy sward, lit a cigar, and began smoking and staring reflectively at vacancy.
The afternoon was lovely, warm as June, the sky was cloudless, and the sunlight glittered in golden ripples on the stream.

All things were favourable; but Mr.Stanford was evidently not a very enthusiastic disciple of Isaac Walton; for his cigar was smoked out, the stump thrown away, and his fishing-rod lay unused still.

He took it up at last and dropped it scientifically in the water.
"It's a bad business," he mused, "and hanging, drawing, and quartering would be too good for me.

But what the dickens is a fellow to do?
And then she is so fond of me, too--poor little girl!" He laid the fishing-rod down again, drew from an inner pocket a note-book and pencil.