benign face we all know and love; the Churchman, ascetic in faith, but with the kindest, most indulgent heart when one finds it; the gentle old Quakeress with placid, unwrinkled brow and silvery hair; Presbyterian, Methodist, and Baptist,—­we were all one that night.  The old angler did not suffer—­we were so glad of that!  But he did not appear to know us, and his talk seemed strange.  It rambled on quietly, softly, like one of his own mountain brooks, babbling of green fields, of sunny summer days, of his favorite sport, and ah! of other things.  But he was not speaking to us.  A sudden, awed hush and thrill came over us as, bending to catch the low words, we all at once understood what only the bishop put into words as he said, half to himself, in a sudden, quick, broken whisper, “God bless the man, he ’s talking to his Master!”

“Yes. sir, that ’s so,” went on the quiet voice; “’t was on’y a dog sure nuff; ‘twa’n’t even a boy, as ye say, an’ ye ast me to be a fisher o’ men.  But I haint had no chance for that, somehow; mebbe I wa’n’t fit for ’t.  I ’m on’y jest a poor old fisherman, Fishin’ Jimmy, ye know, sir.  Ye useter call me James—­no one else ever done it.  On’y a dog?  But he wa’n’t jest a common dog, sir; he was a fishin’ dog.  I never seed a man love fishin’ mor ’n Dash.”  The dog was in the room, and heard his name.  Stealing to the bedside, he put a cold nose into the cold hand of his old friend, and no one had the heart to take him away.  The touch turned the current of the old man’s talk for a moment, and he was fishing again with his dog friend.  “See ’em break, Dashy!  See ’em break!  Lots on ’em to-day, aint they?  Keep still, there ’s a good dog, while I put on a diffunt fly.  Don’t ye see they ‘re jumpin’ at them gnats?  Aint the water jest ’live with ’em?  Aint it shinin’ an’ clear an’—­” The voice faltered an instant, then went on:  “Yes, sir, I ’m comin’—­I ’m glad, dreffle glad to come.  Don’t mind ‘bout my leavin’ my fishin’; do ye think I care ’bout that?  I ‘ll jest lay down my pole ahin’ the alders here, an’ put my lan’in’ net on the stuns, with my flies an’ tackle—­the boys ’ll like ’em, ye know—­an’ I ’ll be right along.

“I mos’ knowed ye was on’y a-tryin’ me when ye said that ’bout how I had n’t been a fisher o’ men, nor even boys, on’y a dog.  ’T was a—­fishin’ dog—­ye know—­an’ ye was allers dreffle good to fishermen,—­dreffle good to—­everybody; died—­for ’em, did n’t ye?—­

“Please wait—­on—­the bank there, a minnit; I ‘m comin’ ’crost.  Water ‘s pretty—­cold this—­spring—­an’ the stream ’s risin’—­but—­I—­can—­do it;—­don’t ye mind—­’bout me, sir.  I ’ll get acrost.”  Once more the voice ceased, and we thought we should not hear it again this side that stream.

But suddenly a strange light came over the thin face, the soft gray eyes opened wide, and he cried out, with the strong voice we had so often heard come ringing out to us across the mountain streams above the sound of their rushing:  “Here I be, sir!  It ‘s Fishin’ Jimmy, ye know, from Francony way; him ye useter call James when ye come ‘long the shore o’ the pond an’ I was a-fishin.’  I heern ye agin, jest now—­an’ I—­straightway—­f’sook—­my—­nets—­an’—­follered—­”