“I had no idea it was so far,” said Stafford; “I must have wandered away from the place.  I started fishing on the road down below, and haven’t noticed the distance.  Will you tell me the name of this place?”

“Herondale,” she replied.

“Thank you,” said Stafford.  “It’s a grand valley and a splendid stream.”  She leant forward with her elbow on the saddle and her chin in the small gauntletted hand, looked up the valley absently and then back at him, with a frank speculation in her eyes which was too frank and calm to be flattering, and was, indeed, somewhat embarrassing.

“I suppose she takes me for a tourist, or a cheap tripper,” thought Stafford, with an uncomfortable kind of amusement; uncomfortable, because he knew that this girl who was acting as shepherd in an old weather-stained habit and a battered hat, was a lady.

She broke the silence again.

“Have you caught many fish?” she asked.

Up to now they had been separated by the stream; Stafford seized the opportunity, waded across in a fairly shallow place, and, opening the lid of his basket, showed her the contents.

“Yes, you have done fairly well,” she said; “but the trout run larger higher up the valley.  By the way,” her brows came together slightly, though the very faintest of smiles for an instant curved the delicately cut lips, “do you know that you are poaching?”

This would have been a staggerer coming from a mere keeper, but from this exquisitely beautiful, this calm statue of a girl, it was simply devastating.  Stafford stared at her.

“Doesn’t this river belong to Sir Joseph Avory?” he asked.

“No,” she replied, uncompromisingly.  “Sir Joseph Avory’s river is called the Lesset water, and runs on the other side of that hill.”

She raised her hunting-crop and pointed with an exquisite movement, as graceful as that of a Diana, to the hill behind her.

“I am very sorry,” said Stafford.  “I thought this was his river.  I met him in London and got permission from him.  Do you know to whom this water belongs?”

“To Mr. Heron, of Herondale,” she replied.

“I beg Mr. Heron’s pardon,” said Stafford.  “Of course I’ll put up my rod at once; and I will take the first opportunity of apologising for my crime; for poaching is a crime, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” she assented, laconically.

“Can you tell me where he lives—­where his house is?”

She raised her whip again and pointed to an opening on the left of the valley, an opening lined on either side by a wild growth of magnificent firs.

“It is up there.  You cannot see it from here,” she said.  As she spoke, she took her chin from her hand and sat upright, gathered up her reins, and, with another of the faint inclinations of her head, by way of adieu, rode on up the valley.