Their lines were in water, but the fish were shy. The promise of a hot day had driven them to the shady hollows under the banks. The juiciest worms failed to lure them from their hiding-places. Norah thought it dull and said so.
Her father laughed.
“You’ll never make a fisherman without cultivating an extra stock of patience,” he said. “The thought of last night’s luck ought to make you happy.”
“Well, it doesn’t,” his daughter answered decidedly. “That was yesterday, and this is to-day; and it is dull, Daddy, anyhow.”
“Well, keep on hoping,” said Mr. Linton; “luck may change at any minute. Norah, do you know, I have something to tell you?”
“What?” Norah’s dullness was gone. There was something unusual in her father’s tone.
“I’m afraid you won’t think it the best news,” he said, smiling at her eager face. “But it had to come some day, I suppose. I couldn’t keep you a baby always. There’s a tutor coming to make a learned lady of my little bush maid.”
“Daddy!” There were worlds of horror in the tone.
“Oh, don’t!” said her father. “You make me feel a criminal of the deepest dye. What can I do with you, you ignorant small child? I can’t let you grow up altogether a bush duffer, dear.” His voice was almost apologetic. “I can assure you it might have been worse. Your Aunt Eva has been harrowing my very soul to make me send you to a boarding school. Think of that now!”
“Boarding school!” said Norah faintly. “Daddy, you wouldn’t?”