Kit got out his bait and began to fish. Cricket left him, returned, whined, and curved himself imploringly; went away again, returned again, barked, and finally disappeared.
Kit paid slight attention to the beagle’s vagaries. He fished along the bank, waded out into the stream, sat for a time upon a rock and fished from there, whistling softly, forgetful of the perturbation which had sent him out to look for peace.
“Pretty good fun to invite your soul and have no one else at your exclusive party,” thought Kit, recognizing his own pleasure and that it was satisfying, though he had taken no fish. “Must get back, I suppose, when there’s a fair lady to dine. But I’m going to try that other place first.”
“That other place” lay farther up the river. It was a quiet spot, shaded by over-hanging branches. He strode to it in his rubber boots, his walking shoes hung across his shoulders by their knotted lacings. He walked in the water, finding it more comfortable with his boots on than land; he noticed how cold the river was still, although there had been several days of considerable warmth.
“Well, now for a last try!” Kit thought as he came to the spot which he had in mind.
There on the river bank sat Cricket piteously whining.
“Anne! Little Anne!” shouted Kit.
Mid-stream stood little Anne, her skirts gathered up in her hands, her bare, slender legs shaking beneath her as the ice-cold river lapped them to the knees.
When Kit called her name she turned to him a disfigured, tear-swollen face and fell forward into the water. He strode out to her and gathered her up in his arms. She was unconscious and her poor little body was as cold as the dead.
“Oh, Lord, and so far from everything!” thought Kit.