“Nobody.  O Preston, it was a great deal after five o’clock.  What are proper times for reading it?”

“Are you going to cut that lemon pie?—­or shall I?  Daisy, I thought you were hungry.  What is the use of jelly, if you don’t eat it?  You’ll never catch fish at that rate.  Fishers must eat.”

“But Preston, what do you mean by proper times for reading the Bible?”

“Daisy, eat some lemon pie.  It’s capital.  It melts in your mouth.  Joanna Underwood is an excellent woman!”

“But Preston, what do you mean?”

“I don’t mean you shall be religious Daisy, if I can help it.”

“What do you mean by being religious?”

“I declare!” said Preston, laughing at her grave little face, “I believe you’ve begun already.  I am come in good time.  I won’t let you be anything but just what you ought to be, Daisy.  Come—­eat some jelly, or some pie, or something.”

“But tell me then, Preston!” Daisy persisted.

“It is something ridiculous,—­and you would not wish to be ridiculous.”

“I do not think I have ever seen ridiculous religious people,” said Daisy steadily; “and they couldn’t be ridiculous because they were religious.”

“Couldn’t they?” said Preston.  “Look out well, Daisy—­I shall watch you.  But they won’t like it much down at Melbourne House, Daisy.  If I were you, I would stop before you begin.”

Daisy was silent.  One thing was clear, she and Preston were at issue; and the value she set upon his favour was very high.  She would not risk it by contending.  Another thing was as clear, that Preston’s last words were truth.  Among her opposers Daisy must reckon her father and mother, if she laid herself open at all to the charge of being “religious.”  And what opposition that would be, Daisy did not let herself think.  She shrunk from it.  The lunch was finished, and she set her attention to pack the remainder of the things back into the basket.  Suddenly she stopped.

“Preston, I wish you to consider my words confidential.”

“Perfectly!” said Preston.

“You are honourable”—­said Daisy.

“O Daisy, Daisy! you ought to have lived hundreds of years ago!  You have me under command.  Come,” said he, kissing her grave little face, “are all these things to go in here?  Let me help—­and then we will go up stream.”

He helped her with a delicate kind of observance which was not like most boys of sixteen, and which Daisy fully relished.  It met her notions.  Then she went to get her fishing-rod which lay fallen into the water.

“O Preston!” she exclaimed, “there is something on it!—­it’s heavy!—­it’s a fish!”

“It is a fish!” repeated Preston, as a jerk of Daisy’s line threw it out high and dry on the shore—­“and what’s more, it’s a splendid one.  Daisy, you’ve done it now!”

“And papa will have it for breakfast!  Preston, put it in a pail of water till we come back.  There’s that tin pail—­we don’t want it for anything—­won’t you?  O I have caught one!”