"Wait a moment, Deacon, let me tell you something," and I detailed the conversation I had held with Mr. Dide over the camp-fire. "Now, you see, if he had been aware of her wishes she would have had no excuse for leaving; she did not refuse him directly, and her bear of a father had set his mind in one direction and thought, no doubt, he was taking in the horizon, when he was only in a small hole of his own digging. Mr. Dide explained this to your wife, at Cascade, where they accidentally met, and she has failed to tell it to you. You know now how unselfish he was and is. Could you have relinquished your object with the same degree of nobleness?"
"Not one in a thousand would. But I don't just like the idea of some other man loving my wife better than I do."
"So long as she does not love him in return, you can have no cause of complaint."
"I guess you're right. I'll take in this wood and call on Mr. Dide."
Our friend received the announcement from me very quietly and greeted the Deacon cordially on his arrival. When the latter went away, Mr. Dide sauntered off to the river bearing his rod and umbrella. We saw nothing of him at noon, and later on I concluded to hunt him up. I had not gone far when I discovered him seated on the edge of a pool. He had one trout, thoroughly dried, and was waiting for another rise; the fly had floated down and lodged against a bit of willow that hung to the bank by its roots, while the limbs vibrated with the current. He started when I spoke to him, but looked up cheerfully, saying:
"I am afwaid I shall not make a success at fishing."
"Not if you sit still, Mr. Dide; you should keep moving and the fly must not be allowed to rest a moment."
"Aw—that makes one's ahms ache, you know."
It might have made his heart ache less, perhaps.
"Supper is about ready—won't you come in to camp?"