And the answer—
'Not a touch.'
By this time Miss Carry had got to know a good deal about the young keeper whose eyes were so directly on a level with hers. He had been to Aberdeen, and to Glasgow, and to Edinburgh; but never out of Scotland?—no. Had he no wish to see London and Paris? Had he no wish to see America?—why, if he came over, her father would arrange to have him put in the way of seeing everything. And perhaps he might be tempted to stay?—there were such opportunities for young men, especially in the west. As for her, she was most communicative about herself; and apparently she had been everywhere and seen everything—except Stratford-on-Avon: that was to be the climax; that was to be the last thing they should visit in Europe—and then on to Liverpool and home. She had been a great deal longer in Europe than her father, she said. Her mother was an invalid and could not travel; her brother George (Joidge, she called him) was at school; so she and a schoolfellow of hers had set out for Europe, accompanied by a maid and a courier, and had 'seen most everything' from St. Petersburg to Wady Halfa. And all this and more she told him with the black soft eyes regarding him openly; and the pale, foreign, tea-rose tinted face full of a friendly interest; and the pretty, white, delicate small fingers idly intertwisting the buff-coloured gloves that she had taken off at his request. Inver-Mudal, Clebrig, Ben Loyal, the straths and woods around looked to him small and confined on this quiet morning. She seemed to have brought with her a wider atmosphere, a larger air. And for a young girl like this to know so much—to have seen so much—and to talk so simply and naturally of going here, there, or anywhere, as if distance were nothing, and time nothing, and money nothing; all this puzzled him not a little. She must have courage, then, and daring, and endurance, despite the pale face and the slender figure, and the small, white, blue-veined hands? Why, she spoke of running over to Paris, in about a fortnight's time, to be present at the wedding of a friend, just as any one about here would speak of driving on to Tongue and returning by the mail-cart next day.
Suddenly there was a quick, half-suppressed exclamation.
'There he is!—there he is!'
And all in a second, as it seemed, Ronald had flung his oar back to the lad behind, seized one of the rods and raised it and put it in her hands, and himself got hold of the other, and was rapidly reeling in the line. What was happening she could hardly tell—she was so bewildered. The rod that she painfully held upright was being violently shaken—now and again there was a loud, long whirr of the reel—and Ronald was by her shoulder, she knew, but not speaking a word—and she was wildly endeavouring to recall all that he had told her. Then there was a sudden slackening of the line—what was this?
'All right,' said he, very quietly. 'Reel in now—as quick as ye can, please.'
Well, she was reeling in as hard as her small and delicate wrist was able to do—and in truth she was too bewildered to feel excited; and above all other earthly things was she anxious that she shouldn't show herself a fool, or scream, or let the thing go—when all at once the handle of the reel seemed to be whipped from her grasp; there was a long whirring shriek of the line; she could hear somewhere a mighty splash (though she dared not look at anything but what was in her hands), and at the same moment she fancied Ronald said, with a quiet laugh—
'We've beat them this time—a clean fish!'
'Do you think we'll get him?' she said breathlessly.