One afternoon, when most of the campers were off fishing, Margaret wandered alone up to the top of the great down behind the camp. Thoroughly in love with the camp life as she was, in most of its aspects, she could not learn to care for fishing. To sit three, four, five hours in a boat, on the chance of killing a harmless and beautiful creature, did not, she protested, appeal to her; and many a lively argument had she had on the subject with Bell and Gertrude, who were ardent fisher-maidens.

"But, Margaret, it is the sport!" Bell would cry. "It isn't just killing, it is sport!"

"But, Bell, if the sport does not amuse me!" Margaret would answer. "If I want to kill something, I would rather kill spiders, though I am trying not to be so afraid of them—or mosquitoes."

Then the girls would cry out that she was hopeless, and would gather up their reels and rods and leave her to her own peaceful devices, having even the generosity not to twit her with inconsistency when she enjoyed her delicately-fried perch at supper.

These solitary afternoons were sure to be pleasant ones for Margaret. She loved the merry companionship of the campers, but she loved, too, to wander through the woods, among the great straight-stemmed pines and dark feathery hemlocks, or to track the little clear brook through its windings, from the great bog to its outlet into the lake; or, as now, to stroll about over the great down, looking down on the blue water below.

It was a perfect afternoon. Little white clouds drifted here and there over the tops of the wooded hills, but they only made the sky more deeply and intensely blue. There was just enough breeze to ripple the water so that it caught every sunbeam, and set it dancing on the tremulous surface. Below her a fish-hawk poised and dipped, seeking his dinner; far out, two black specks showed where her friends were at their "sport." Margaret drew a long breath of content.

"Oh, pleasant place!" she said. "How glad I am that I am not in that boat. Oh, pleasant place!"

She looked about her with happy eyes. Before her, the earth fell away in an abrupt descent to the lake, steep enough to be dignified by the name of precipice; but behind and on either hand it rolled away in billowy slopes of green, crowned here and there with patches of wood, and crossed by irregular lines of stone wall.

"Oh, pleasant place!" said Margaret a third time. "How many beautiful places I know! What a wonderful world of beauty it is!"

Her mind went back to Fernley House, the beloved home where she lived with her uncle John Montfort: to the rose-garden, where they loved to work together, the sunny lawns, the shady alleys of box and laurel, the arbors of honeysuckle and grape-vine. She could almost see the beloved uncle, pruning-knife in hand, bending over his roses; if only he did not cut back the Ramblers too far! She could almost see her little cousins, her children, as she called them, Basil and Susan D., running about with their butterfly-nets, shouting and calling to each other. Did they think of her, as she hourly thought of them? Did Uncle John miss her? She must always miss him, no matter how happy she might be with other friends. A wave of homesickness ran through her, and brought the quick tears to her eyes; but she brushed them away with an indignant little shake of her head.

"Goose!" she said. "When will you learn that it is a physical impossibility to be in two places at once? You don't want to leave this beautiful place and these dear people yet? Of course, you don't! Well, then, don't behave so! But all the same, it would be good to hear Uncle John's voice!"

At this moment she heard,—not the beloved voice for which she longed,—but certainly a sound, breaking the stillness of the afternoon; a sound made neither by wind nor water. It did not sound like a bird, either; nor—a beast?

"Oh, to be sure!" thought Margaret. "It may be a sheep. I saw the flock up there this morning. Of course, it is a sheep."

The sound came again, louder this time, and nearer; something between a snorting and a blowing; it must be a very large sheep to make such a loud noise.

Margaret turned to look behind her; but it was not a sheep that she saw.

Just behind the rock on which she was sitting the land rose in a high, green shoulder, on the farther side of which it sloped gradually down to a little valley. Over this shoulder now appeared—a head! A head five times as big as that of the biggest sheep that ever bore fleece; a head crowned by long, sharp, dangerous-looking horns. And now, as Margaret sat transfixed with terror, another head appeared, and another, and still another; till a whole herd of cattle stood on the ridge looking down at her.

Jet black, of colossal size, with gleaming eyes and quivering nostrils, they were formidable creatures to any eyes; but to poor Margaret's they were monsters as terrible as griffin or dragon. All cattle, even the mildest old Brindle that ever stood to be milked, were objects of dire alarm to her, but she had never seen animals like these. Tales of the wild cattle of Chillingham, of the fierce herds that roam the Western prairies and the pampas of the South, rushed to her mind. She felt fear stealing over her, a wild, unreasoning panic which neither strength nor reason could resist. She dared not move; she dared not cry out for help; indeed, who was there to hear if she did cry? She sat still on her rock, her hands clasped together, her eyes, wide with terror, fixed on the enemy.

The leader of the herd met her gaze with one which to her excited fancy seemed threatening and sinister. For a moment he stood motionless; then, tossing his head with its gleaming horns, and uttering another loud snort, he took a step toward her; the rest followed. Another step and another. Margaret glanced wildly around her. On one side was the precipice, on either hand a wide stretch of open meadow; no hope of escape. She must meet her death here, then, alone, with no human eye to see, no human hand to help her in her extremity. She crouched down on the rock, and covered her eyes with her hands. The cattle drew nearer. Snuffing the air, tossing their horns, with outstretched necks and eager eyes, step by step they advanced. Now they were close about her, their giant forms blocking the sunlight, their gleaming eyes fixed upon her. Margaret felt her senses deserting her; but suddenly—hark! another sound fell on her ear; a sound clear, resonant, jubilant; the sound of a human voice, singing:

"Gerald!" cried Margaret. "Gerald, help!" and she dropped quietly off the rock, under the very feet of the black cattle.

When she came to herself, she was propped against the rock, and Gerald was fanning her with his cap and gazing at her with eyes of anxiety and tenderness, which yet had a twinkle in their depths.

"Better?" he asked, as he had asked once before under somewhat similar circumstances. "Do say you are better, please! The house isn't on fire this time, and neither is the Thames."

Margaret struggled into a sitting posture. "Oh! Gerald," she said, "I am so ashamed! You will think I am always fainting, and, indeed, I never have in all my life except these two times. But they were so terrible—ah! there they are still."

Indeed, the herd of cattle was standing near, still gazing with gleaming eyes; but, somehow, the look of ferocity was gone. She could even see—with Gerald beside her—that they were noble-looking creatures.

"Oh, no!" said Gerald. "Don't call them terrible; you will hurt their poor old feelings. I know them of old, Horatio; fellows of infinite jest."

"Are they—are they tame?" asked Margaret, in amazement.

"Tame? I should say so. Look at this fellow! I have known him from a calf. Did um want um's nosy rubbed?" he added, addressing the huge leader, who was snuffing nearer and nearer. "Come along, then, Popolorum Tibby, and tell um's prettiest aunt not to be afraid of um any more."

"But—but they came all around me!" said poor Margaret.

"Small blame to them! Showed their good sense, not to say their taste. But to be wholly candid, they came for salt."

"For salt? Those great monsters?"

"To be sure! Ellis, the farmer, makes regular pets of them, and I always put a lump of salt in my pocket when I am coming their way. I never saw them in this pasture before, though; the fence must be broken. I believe I have some grains of salt left now. See him take it like a lady!"

He held out his hand, with a little heap of salt in it. The huge ox came forward, stepping daintily, with neck outstretched and nostrils spread; put out a tongue like a pink sickle, and neatly, with one comprehensive lick, swept off every particle of salt, and looked his appreciation.

Gerald patted the great muzzle affectionately.

"Good old Blunderbore!" he said. "I almost carried you when you were a day old, though you may not believe it. Come, Margaret, give him a pat, and say you bear no malice."

Margaret put out a timid hand and patted the great black head. Blunderbore snuffed and blew, and expressed his friendliness in every way he could.

"Why, he is a dear, gentle creature!" said the girl. "I shall never be afraid of him again. And yet—oh, Gerald, I am so glad you came!"

"So am I!" said Gerald.

"Because," Margaret went on, "of course, I see how silly and foolish I was; but all the same, I was terribly frightened, and I really don't know what would have become of me if you had not come, Gerald."

"But I did come, Margaret! I will always come, whenever you want me, if it is across the world."

"But—you must think me so very silly, Gerald!"

"Do you wish to know what I think of you?" asked Gerald.

Margaret was silent.

"Because, for the insignificant sum of two cents, I would tell you," he went on.

"I haven't two cents with me," said Margaret. "I think it is time to go home now, Gerald."

"Generosity is part of my nature," said Gerald; "I'll tell you for nothing. Margaret—sit down, please!"

Margaret had risen to her feet. The words had the old merry ring, but a deep note quivered in his voice. The girl was afraid, she knew not of what; afraid, yet with a fear that was half joy. "I—I must go, Gerald, indeed!" she said, faintly.

"You must not go," said Gerald, gravely. "It is not all play, Margaret, between you and me. My cap and bells are off now, and you must hear what I have to say."

Margaret, still hesitating, looked up in his face, and saw something there that brought the sweet color flooding over her neck and brow, so swift and hot that instinctively she hid her face in her hands.

But gently, tenderly, Gerald Merryweather drew the slender hands away, and held them close in his own.

"My dearest girl," said the young man, "my dearest love, you are not afraid of me? Sit down by me; sit down, my Margaret, and let me tell you what my heart has been saying ever since the day I first saw you."

So dear Margaret sat down, perhaps because she could hardly stand, and listened. And the black cattle listened, too, and so did the fish-hawk overhead, and the little birds peeping from their nest in the birch wood close at hand; but none of them ever told what Gerald said.