out carefully over the water, and just as he is about to drop it in, the little brother, perched on the sloping brink, slips on the smooth pine-needles, and goes sliddering down into the pool up to his waist.  How he weeps with dismay, and how funnily his dress sticks to him as he crawls out!  But his grief is soon assuaged by the privilege of carrying the trout strung on an alder twig; and it is a happy, muddy, proud pair of urchins that climb over the fence out of the field of triumph at the close of the day.

What does the father say, as he meets them in the road?  Is he frowning or smiling under that big brown beard?  You cannot be quite sure.  But one thing is clear:  he is as much elated over the capture of the real trout as any one.  He is ready to deal mildly with a little irregularity for the sake of encouraging pluck and perseverance.  Before the three comrades have reached the hotel, the boy has promised faithfully never to take his little brother off again without asking leave; and the father has promised that the boy shall have a real jointed fishing-rod of his own, so that he will not need to borrow old Horace’s pole any more.

At breakfast the next morning the family are to have a private dish; not an every-day affair of vulgar, bony fish that nurses can catch, but trout—­three of them!  But the boy looks up from the table and sees the adored of his soul, Annie V——­, sitting at the other end of the room, and faring on the common food of mortals.  Shall she eat the ordinary breakfast while he feasts on dainties?  Do not other sportsmen send their spoils to the ladies whom they admire?  The waiter must bring a hot plate, and take this largest trout to Miss V——­ (Miss Annie, not her sister—­make no mistake about it).

The face of Augustus is as solemn as an ebony idol while he plays his part of Cupid’s messenger.  The fair Annie affects surprise; she accepts the offering rather indifferently; her curls drop down over her cheeks to cover some small confusion.  But for an instant the corner of her eye catches the boy’s sidelong glance, and she nods perceptibly, whereupon his mother very inconsiderately calls attention to the fact that yesterday’s escapade has sun-burned his face dreadfully.

Beautiful Annie V——­, who, among all the unripened nymphs that played at hide-and-seek among the maples on the hotel lawn, or waded with white feet along the yellow beach beyond the point of pines, flying with merry shrieks into the woods when a boat-load of boys appeared suddenly around the corner, or danced the lancers in the big, bare parlours before the grown-up ball began—­who in all that joyous, innocent bevy could be compared with you for charm or daring?  How your dark eyes sparkled, and how the long brown ringlets tossed around your small head, when you stood up that evening, slim and straight, and taller by half a head than your companions, in the lamp-lit room where the children were playing forfeits, and said, “There is not one boy here that Dares to kiss me!” Then you ran out on the dark porch, where the honeysuckle vines grew up the tall, inane Corinthian pillars.