“Y–y–ye-es,” said Roy, trembling in every limb, while his teeth rattled like small castanets, “I’m very c–c–c–cold, but I’m in luck, for I’ve g–g–g–got to-night’s s–s–s–supper, anyhow.”

This was true, but as he could not hope to procure many more suppers in the same fashion at that season of the year, he and his sister went off without delay to try the fishing.

They had brought a fishing-line and a few hooks, among other small things, from the Indian camp. This line was now got out, overhauled, and baited with a bit of the young duck’s breast. From the end of the point of rocks, which had been named the Wharf, the line was cast, for there the lake was deep.

“Take the end of the line, Nell; I want you to catch the first fish.”

“How d’ye know we shall catch—oh! oh—ooh!” The fish in Silver Lake had never seen a bait or felt a hook in their lives before that day. They actually fought for the prize. A big bully—as is usually the case in other spheres of life—gained it, and found he had “caught a Tartar.” He nearly pulled Nelly into the lake, but Roy sprang to the rescue, and before the child’s shout of surprise had ceased to echo among the cliffs, a beautiful silvery fish, about a foot and a half long, lay tumbling............