Harold had no heart for the continuation of his work with Gallagher for a time after his parting from Edith. He saw her daily with Susman, walking with him, playing to him, and the old deformed pigmy receiving every consideration and encouragement from Merton. This was, indeed, a bitter potion. He had at first been inclined to ascribe her moodiness to sympathy with the Bainbridges; but a latent investigation of the affairs at the homestead, with a little information injudiciously imparted in a burst of confidence by the head thereof, revealed that she was indirectly the victim of an imbroglio. This incensed Harold, and would probably have driven him into a fierce contention with the parties concerned in the collusion had not a casual incident completely turned the scales against them.
Coming in early from the run, and having nothing particular to do to while away the evening, Harold took up his rod and line and went down to the creek. It was not that he hoped to derive any pleasure from the pursuit, but he wanted to have a "good think." He lit his pipe, and threw himself down under a willow-tree where he and Edith had gathered maidenhair ferns and bluebells in happier times. And over this he was brooding, unmindful of the fish that was tugging at his line, nor was his attention drawn to it till his rod was partly in the water; then he caught it up, and, after a severe tussle, landed a fine, big perch. But as it went floundering up the bank, his foot slipped, and he fell sprawling among the moss and ferns. An imprecation was on his lips, when there rang in his ears the silvery ripple of maidenly laughter. It came from Edith, and it was the first time he had heard her laugh for many a day. She was standing just above, looking down in amusement at his discomfiture. But she was cold and stiff again in a moment, and appeared, if anything, the more embarrassed of the twain.
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