But the fisherman only saw—what pleased him greatly, some very fine fish; shad they were for the greater part; from which he selected a noble specimen and cast it over into Mr. Linden's boat. Then standing up in his own he wiped his hands on the sleeves of his coat.
"Hope you'll come along again some day," said he. "And" (waggishly) "don't come without the lady!"—
The rope was drawn in and the little skiff shot ahead smoothly and silently from the great brown fishing boat and her equally brown owners. Gliding on—watched for a little by the fishers, then their attention was claimed by the flapping shad in the net, and the sail boat set her canvas towards Kildeer river. Mr. Linden went forward and bestowed his prisoner a little more out of sight and sound in some place of safety, and then sitting down in the prow dipped his hands in the blue water and took a survey of Faith, as she sat in the stern—the tiller in her hand, the shadow of the sail falling partly across; the spring zephyrs playing all about her.
"Little bird," he said, "why don't you sing?"
A smile of much and deep meaning went back from the stern to the prow; but she presently made the somewhat obvious remark that "birds do not always sing."
"A melancholy fact in natural history! the truth of which I am just now experiencing. What shall be done with them at these times—are they to be coaxed—or chidden or fed with sponge cake? Have you got any in your basket?"
"Are you hungry?" said Faith.
"Only for words—or songs—or some other commodity of like origin," Mr. Linden said, coming back to his old place. "What shall I have?—if I cannot get the two first?"
"You might have a little patience?—"
"'Patience', my dear, 'is a good root'—but nothing akin to sugar canes."