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crop was heather. Best of all, she could see an entrancing little stream, sparkling and chuckling over its stony bed.
    She made straight for it and finding a convenient flat stone, laid herself over it and gazed down into the bright water. It was a duck of a stream! It had everything—masses of tiny plants that tumbled over its edge to drown themselves in the stream. Birds so busy about their own affairs that they didn’t even seem to notice her, and a water rat, sunning itself on a projecting stone in mid-stream, gave her one glance from his bright eyes and then calmly continued his careful toilet. And trout. Meg had never seen trout in their natural setting and she was entranced as she watched them moving so effortlessly in the water, their scales shining in the sunshine. Instinctively her hands dipped into the clear, cold-stream—and the fish were gone! Then, idly, she picked up two little sticks and dropping them in, watched them race one another. One foundered almost immediately, the other sailed on purposefully—she wondered where it would end up—
    She found two more sticks and started them off. It was a childish pastime, of course, but at that moment it suited her mood to perfection. She had not realised it before, but what she had needed was to relax in solitude, and this sanctuary which she was sharing alone with nature afforded the perfect opportunity. She decided that she wouldn’t bother to walk any further. She would surely never find anything more satisfying than this!
    Then, without warning, the peace and tranquillity of the place was shattered to fragments.
    “So at last I’ve caught you red-handed, have I, my lad !” a stern voice said with evident satisfaction. “Well, believe me, you’re for it! And this is just a taste of what’s coming to you!”
    And with a painfully stinging slap, a strong hand descended ruthlessly on Meg’s undefended rear.
    With an agonised squawk and a convulsive twist she was on her feet to face—Hector Heronshaw. Not that that surprised her. She had recognised the voice, and in any case, who else would be such a brute?
    But if Meg wasn’t surprised, Hector was—though not in the least embarrassed.
    “Well, well, well!” he commented with deceptive mildness. “How interesting! So equality between the sexes extends even to trespass and poaching! But that isn’t going to make any difference, my girl! I’ve caught you actually at it and I’m going to make an example of you! But wait a minute—” he peered at her in that curious intense way he had. “You’re not a Blytheburn girl! You’re—yes, you’re Miss Ainslie! That makes the situation even more interesting! ”
    “Yes, I am Meg Ainslie,” Meg acknowledged as coolly as she was able. “And I was not poaching, Sir Hector!”
    He ignored the fact that she knew who he was and smiled sardonically.
    “Oh, come, that’s straining my credulity somewhat, isn’t it? I find you leaning over the stream at a spot known to be favoured by the trout and with your hands and arms in the water, and you say you weren’t guddling for them!”
    "Well, it’s true, I wasn’t,” Meg insisted. “And—and even if I’d come to do that—which I hadn’t—I wouldn’t have had the heart to! They were enjoying themselves so much!”
    He ignored that as he was apparently able to ignore anything which it didn’t suit him to hear.
    “All right, so you weren’t poaching,” he said ironically. “In that case, do you mind telling me just what you were doing?”
    “Enjoying myself—and playing Pooh-sticks,” Meg told him defiantly.
    “Pooh-sticks?” The heavy, fair eyebrows lifted enquiringly.
    “Yes—you put two sticks into the stream to see which gets to a given spot first,” Meg explained rather uneasily. Really, put into words, it did sound rather childish— and Hector Heronshaw was quick to seize on that.
    “Just how old are you, Miss Ainslie?” he asked curiously.
    “I was twenty-four last birthday,”