“It would take me several months to pick it up, I suppose?”

“Oh, yes—­nine or six—­that will do,” said Duncan.  “You will begin to learn ta names o’ ta islands and ta places.  There now, as far as you can see is ta Seann Bheinn; and it means ta old hill.  And there is a rock there:  it is Stac-nan Balg—­”

Here Duncan looked rather perplexed.

“Yes,” said Lavender:  “what does that mean?”

“It means—­it means,” said Duncan in still greater perplexity, and getting a little impatient, “it means—­stac, tat iss a steep rock:  Stac-nan-Balg—­it means—­well, sir, it is ower deep for ta English”

The tone of mortification in which Duncan uttered these words warned
Lavender that his philological studies might as well cease; and indeed
Sheila and Ingram had by this time reached the banks of the White
Water, and were waiting Duncan and the majestic rod.

It was much too bright and pleasant a morning for good fishing, but there was a fair ripple on the pools of the stream, where ever and anon a salmon fresh run from the sea would leap into the air, showing a gleaming curve of silver to the sunlight.  The splash of the big fish seemed an invitation, and Duncan was all anxiety to teach the stranger, who, as he fancied, knew nothing about throwing a fly.  Ingram lay down on a rock some little distance back from the banks, and put his hands beneath his head and watched the operations going forward.  But was it really Duncan who was to teach the stranger?  It was Sheila who picked out flies for him.  It was Sheila who held the rod while he put them on the line.  It was Sheila who told him where the bigger salmon usually lay—­under the opposite bank of the broad and almost lake-like pool into which the small but rapid White Water came tumbling and foaming down its narrow channel of rocks and stones.

Then Sheila waited to see her pupil begin.  He had evidently a little difficulty about the big double-handed rod, a somewhat more formidable engine of destruction than the supple little thing with which he had whipped the streams of Devonshire and Cornwall.

The first cast sent both flies and a lump of line tumbling on to the pool, and would have driven the boldest of salmon out of its wits.  The second pretty nearly took a piece out of Ingram’s ear, and made him shift his quarters with rapidity.  Duncan gave him up in despair.  The third cast dropped both flies with the lightness of a feather in the running waters of the other side of the pool; and the next second there was a slight wave along the surface, a dexterous jerk with the butt, and presently the line was whirled out into the middle of the pool, running rapidly off the reel from the straining rod.

“Plenty o’ line, sir, plenty o’ line!” shouted Duncan in a wild fever of anxiety, for the fish had plunged suddenly.

Ingram had come running down to the bank.  Sheila was all excitement and interest as she stood and watched every slackening or tightening of the line as the fish went up the pool and down the pool, and crossed the current in his efforts to escape.  The only self-possessed person, indeed, was Lavender himself, who presently said, “Miss Mackenzie, won’t you take the rod now and have the honor of landing him?  I don’t think he will show much more fight.”