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1835.] to time, independently of the hands of the clock. What with his fishing-rod and his sketch-book, Jack Venables could always make himself thoroughly contented. When the trout were rising freely, his basket filled rapidly: he could cast a fly to the approval of Donald himself, and under the tuition of that skilful veteran he was rapidly being initiated in the special mysteries of mountain sport. When the trout were in no mood to take, whether in the loch, in the lakelets, or in the streams, he seldom cared to persevere, and fell back on his brushes and colour-box. Excitement in one shape or another was everything to him. He had a rare facility of touch, a wonderful instinct for colour; and the excitement he found in the ever-changing lights and scenes was unfailing. He was as happy in transferring a landscape bathed in sunshine and flecked with shadows to his block, as in switching the small brown trout over his shoulder; and his pulses beat nearly as quick to the lurid glories of a thundery sunset as when running a Salmo ferox on his trolling-rod where the lake broke away into the rapids.

As for Leslie, he took his pleasures more contemplatively, though not more sadly. In rallying him about his love for poetry, Moray had touched his strength or his weakness. He was a born poet, in perpetual sympathy with the poetical sides of things, though, so far as the world knew, his poetry had hitherto found no expression. He might be born for great things, or he might have been born to dream away remarkable talents. In the meantime, he could make himself placidly happy among the scenes which brought the exhilaration of enjoyment to his companion. No one could deny that there was a great deal in him. Not only had he had a distinguished career at the university, but he could generally say the right thing at the right moment, though his remark might be somewhat slow of coming: if he would hang over a repartee, it seldom missed fire, and there was pretty sure to be a playful snap in it when it did come. Nevertheless, superficial observers of natures antipathetical to his own, might have set him down for a muff or a prig, especially if they had made his acquaintance in Highland shooting-quarters. He rarely handled a gun himself, though he liked to follow a shooting-party. Made very much after the fashion of a young Henry VIII., his somewhat bulky and cumbrous person would have adapted itself with difficulty to the inequalities of difficult ground in following out an awkward stalk; and when he did essay to throw a fly, his line was apt to fall in coils upon the water. Conscious of his own shortcomings, he neither cared to correct them nor to court failure. But he would lie on the bank for hours, watching Venables at work, his handsome features flushing over a struggle and a success; while in the intervals the thoughts that were wandering far away found ample occupation for his fertile fancy.

But a day came, in the second week of their sojourn, when the mercurial Venables felt bored, and he did not scruple to confess it. The fine weather had broken; leaden clouds lay heavy on the bosom of Lochconan, veiling the view of the opposite cliffs. The rapid fall of the barometer gave warning of a violent storm, though, as the fall had been sudden, the storm might be a passing one. As the little party were seated at breakfast, a peal of thunder seemed to burst among the chimney-pots and shake the room. Then dis-