A little procession of white ducks sailed slowly up the river, and each as it passed twisted its head to peer up at the spectator.  Presently the drake who led them touched bottom, and his red-gold webs appeared.  Then he paddled ashore, lifted up his voice, waggled his tail, and with a crescendo of quacking conducted his harem into the farmyard.  One lone Muscovy duck, perchance emulating the holy men of old in their self-communion, or else constrained by circumstance to a solitary life, appeared apart on a little island under the alders.  A stranger in a strange land, he sat with bent head and red-rimmed, philosophic eyes, regarding his own breast while sunset lights fired the metallic lustre of his motley.  Quite close to him a dead branch thrust upwards from the water, and the river swirled in oily play of wrinkles and dimples beyond it.  Here, with some approach to his old skill, the angler presently cast a small brown moth.  It fell lightly and neatly, cocked for a second, then turned helplessly over, wrecked in the sudden eddy as a natural insect had been.  A fearless rise followed, and in less than half a minute a small trout was in the angler’s net.  John Grimbal landed this little fish carefully and regarded it with huge satisfaction before returning it to the river.  Then, having accomplished the task set by sudden desire,—­to catch a Teign trout again, feel it, smell it, see the ebony and crimson, the silver belly warming to gold on its sides and darkening to brown and olive above,—­having by this act renewed sensations that had slept for fifteen years, he put up his rod and returned to his temporary quarters at the dwelling of Mrs. Blanchard.

His brother was waiting in the little garden to welcome him.  Martin walked up and down, smelled the flowers, and gazed with sober delight upon the surrounding scene.  Already sunset fires had waned; but the high top of the fir that crowned Rushford Bridge still glowed with a great light on its red bark; an uprising Whiddon, where it lay afar off under the crown of Cranbrook, likewise shone out above the shadowed valley.

Martin Grimbal approached his brother and laid his hand upon the fisherman’s arm.  He stood the smaller in stature, though of strong build.  His clean-shaved face had burned much darker than John’s; he was indeed coffee-brown and might have been mistaken for an Indian but for his eyes of ordinary slate-grey.  Without any pretension to good looks, Martin Grimbal displayed what was better—­an expression of such frank benignity and goodness that his kind trusted him and relied upon him by intuition.  Honest and true to the verge of quixotism was this man in all dealings with his fellows, yet he proved a faulty student of character.  First he was in a measure blinded by his own amiable qualities to acute knowledge of human nature; secondly, he was drawn away from humanity rather than not, for no cynic reason, but by the character of his personal predilections and pursuits.