"Kay!"
"Yes, Lady Yellow-hair."
"What are you going to do with that rod?"
"Whip Isla for a yellow trout for you."
"Isla?"
"Not our Loch, but the quick water yonder."
"You know," she said, "to a Yankee girl those moors appear rather—rather lonely."
"Forbidding?"
"No; beautiful in their way. But I am in awe of Glenark moors."
He smiled, lingering still to loop on a gossamer leader and a cast of tiny flies.