honeysuckles and brambles with berries, some ripe, some red; while the scarlet corals of briar and white bryony gemmed every riotous trailing thicket, dene, and dingle along the river’s brink; and in the grassy spaces between rose little chrysoprase steeples of wood sage all set in shining fern.  Upon the boulders in midstream subaqueous mosses, now revealed and starved by the drought, died hard, and the seeds of grasses, figworts, and persicarias thrust up flower and foliage, flourishing in unwonted spots from which the next freshet would rudely tear them.  Insect life did not abundantly manifest itself, for the day was sunless; but now and again, with crisp rattle of his gauze wings, a dragon-fly flashed along the river.  Through these scenes the Teign rolled drowsily and with feeble pulses.  Upon one bank rose the confines of Whiddon; on the other, abrupt and interspersed with gulleys of shattered shale, ascended huge slopes whereon a whole summer of sunshine had scorched the heather to dry death.  But fading purple still gleamed here and there in points and splashes, and the lesser furze, mingling therewith, scattered gold upon the tremendous acclivities even to the crown of fir-trees that towered remote and very blue upon the uplifted sky-line.  Swallows, with white breasts flashing, circled over the river, and while their elevation above the water appeared at times tremendous, the abrupt steepness of the gorge was such that the birds almost brushed the hillside with their wings.  A sledge, laden with the timber of barked sapling oaks, creaked and jingled over the rough road beside the stream; a man called to his horses and a dog barked beside him; then they disappeared and the spacious scene was again empty, save for its manifold wild life and music.

John Grimbal fished, failed, and cursed the poor water and the lush wealth of the riverside that caught his fly at every critical moment.  A few small trout he captured and returned; then, flinging down rod and net, he called to his brother for the luncheon-basket.  Together they sat in the fern beside the river and ate heartily of the fare that Mrs. Blanchard had provided; then, as John was about to light a pipe, his brother, with a smile, produced a little wicker globe and handed it to him.  This unexpected sight awoke sudden and keen appetite on the elder’s face.  He smacked his lips, swore a hearty oath of rejoicing, and held out an eager hand for the thing.

“My God! to think I’ll suck the smoke of that again,—­the best baccy in the wide world!”

The little receptacle contained a rough sort of sun-dried Kaffir tobacco, such as John and Martin had both smoked for the past fifteen years.

“I thought it would be a treat.  I brought home a few pounds,” said the younger, smiling again at his brother’s hungry delight.  John cut into the case, loaded his pipe, and lighted it with a contented sign.  Then he handed the rest back to its owner.

“No, no,” said Martin.  “I’ll just have one fill, that’s all.  I brought this for you.  ’T will atone for the poor sport.  The creel I shall leave with you now, for I’m away to Fingle Bridge and Prestonbury.  We’ll meet at nightfall.”