The same streams coursed through his hills and dales that ran through those of Lady Bazelhurst, the only distinction being that his portion was the more desirable.  When her ladyship’s agents came leisurely up to close their deal, they discovered that Mr. Shaw had snatched up this choice five hundred acres of the original tract intended for their client.  At least one thousand acres were left for the young lady, but she was petulant enough to covet all of it.

Overtures were made to Mr. Shaw, but he would not sell.  He was preparing to erect a handsome country-place, and he did not want to alter his plans.  Courteously at first, then somewhat scathingly he declined to discuss the proposition with her agents.  After two months of pressure of the most tiresome persistency, he lost his temper and sent a message to his inquisitors that suddenly terminated all negotiations.  Afterward, when he learned that heir client was a lady, he wrote a conditional note of apology, but, if he expected a response, he was disappointed.  A year went by, and now, with the beginning of this narrative, two newly completed country homes glowered at each other from separate hillsides, one envious and spiteful, the other defiant and a bit satirical.

Bazelhurst Villa looks across the valley and sees Shaw’s Cottage commanding the most beautiful view in the hills; the very eaves of her ladyship’s house seem to have wrinkled into a constant scowl of annoyance.  Shaw’s long, low cottage seems to smile back with tantalizing security, serene in its more lofty altitude, in its more gorgeous raiment of nature.  The brooks laugh with the glitter of trout, the trees chuckle with the flight of birds, the hillsides frolic in their abundance of game, but the acres are growling like dogs of war.  “Love thy neighbor as thyself” is not printed on the boards that line the borders of the two estates.  In bold black letters the sign-boards laconically say:  “No trespassing on these grounds.  Keep off!”

“Yes, I fancy you’d better put him off the place if he comes down here again to fish, Tompkins,” said his lordship, in conclusion.  Then he touched whip to his horse and bobbed off through the shady lane in a most painfully upright fashion, his thin legs sticking straight out, his breath coming in agonized little jerks with each succeeding return of his person to the saddle.

“By Jove, Evelyn, it’s most annoying about that confounded Shaw chap,” he remarked to his wife as he mounted the broad steps leading to the gallery half an hour later, walking with the primness which suggests pain.  Lady Bazelhurst looked up from her book, her fine aristocratic young face clouding with ready belligerence.

“What has he done, Cecil dear?”

“Been fishing on our property again, that’s all.  Tompkins says he laughed at him when he told him to get off.  I say, do you know, I think I’ll have to adopt rough methods with that chap.  Hang it all, what right has he to catch our fish?”