I hear that you are to be on hand soon. Mr. Ellett has gone up the river, and promises to be very attentive to me. I am all of a flutter. Read with care what I have not written, and believe me,
Mysteriously your friend,
Anne Lyndsay.
L’envoi.
If you are fond of Scotch literature the poems of Montrose might be of interest.
“Of all the nonsense ever I read!” said Carington; but he went to the side of the room, where the long bookcases overflowed with volumes on which the dust had gathered in his absence. He looked them over, and at last found the one he sought. “Montrose—Graham—James, Marquis of, etc., author of certain songs once popular.”
By and by he chanced upon a volume of Scotch ballads, and sat down. Very soon he laid the book, back up and open, on the table, and went on smoking. After a half-hour he discovered that his pipe had long been out. It was, in fact, cold.
He went forth at once, and assured his partners that Cuban malaria necessitated Canadian air. In twenty-four hours he was on his way to the river.
Three days later saw him on the waters he loved. Toward five in the afternoon he heard voices singing. He knew them well, and in a few minutes was ashore at a bend of the stream.
For a few moments he stood, unseen, a little below the lads, who lay back of a rock, caroling their songs, having killed many trout, and filled themselves with a mighty luncheon.