The children meanwhile had completely forgotten the existence of their new cousin. The morning was deliciously bright; there was a fresh scent in the air that made them all feel inclined to caper about without exactly knowing why. Even Murtagh forgot his troubles with Mr. Plunkett, and raced and shouted with the others.

Their river was a branch of a broad mountain stream. It came trickling, sparkling, dancing between the great bits of moss-grown rock that strewed its course, tumbling unexpectedly from time to time head over heels down the side of a big stone, and then lying still and clear in pools sheltered by the rocks. In the very middle the water flowed swiftly along in uneven ripples, slapping up against obtrusive rocks with a ruffle of white spray that made the delight of the children.

But what was not a delight in that river? There was the water to splash and paddle in, with stones for those who liked to practice hardening their feet, and patches of sand where one could enjoy that delicious half-tickling sensation of feet sinking and sand oozing up between all one's toes; then there were the pools for sailing boats; and the current in the middle for floating hats, with all the fun of not being quite sure whether they could be caught in time.

The rocks covered over with thick sunny moss for warming cold feet, and all the wonderful things that were to be found in the river,—things that came floating down, things that grew, and things that had got there somehow. Then there were the islands; the trout and the minnows.

It was to one of the islands that the children were going, and when they got down upon the beach they found their beloved river fuller and rather more energetic, but just as bright and tempting as it always was on these lovely autumn mornings. The water looked like clear brown crystal in the sunlight, and soon everything was forgotten in the excitement of looking for trout. Not a fish did they see this morning, till, just as they were crossing the stepping-stones to a little island, Winnie pulled Murtagh's jacket, and pointed silently to where a great fellow lay under a rock, the sun shining on his spotted side.

"Ah!" whispered Murtagh, "isn't he a beauty?"

They stood a minute watching, but the trout scarcely moved.

"How still he keeps," whispered Winnie; "I believe I could catch him in my hands."

In a minute she had set her saucepan down on the stone, pulled off her shoes and stockings, and was cautiously stepping into the water. The icy cold of it made her screw up her eyes, but on she went trying to make as little splash as possible. Still the trout never moved. Murtagh's interest was intense; he could scarcely refrain from giving a shout. Winnie could hardly believe her own good fortune. She got close up behind the trout; she bent down; her hands were just closing on it, when—there was a tremendous splash behind her, and in an instant the trout had whisked far away out of sight. She closed her hands with a convulsive grasp at its tail, but it was no use,—it was clean gone.

"You little idiot, Murtagh! you might have waited till I'd caught him," she said angrily.

"I beg your pardon awfully, Winnie," said Murtagh, a picture of abject penitence; "I didn't do it on purpose. I didn't see I was come to the edge of the stone."

"Who said you did it on purpose?" replied Winnie. "You might have looked where you were going."

"I'm awfully sorry," repeated Murtagh.

But Winnie didn't feel as if she could forgive him yet. She turned away in silence, and occupied herself with rescuing from the water her boots and stockings, which had been kicked off the stone when Murtagh slipped.

By the time she had done that, she turned round again and said with something very like a twinkle in her eye:

"As you threw it in you may fetch it out."

She pointed to where the saucepan lay on the bottom of the pool. Murtagh, having taken off his wet boots and stockings, hooked it out cleverly with his foot; then Winnie slung all on a garter round her neck, and tucking up her frock said cheerily:

"Never mind; come along, and let's see if we can't catch him somewhere else."

Just at that moment a shout arose from the other side of the island, and Bobbo, bursting through the bushes, exclaimed in breathless delight that Rosie had caught a trout "in her hands in the water." Winnie told her of her disappointment.

"What's up with the trout, I wonder?" said Bobbo. "Generally they're off like lightning if you so much as look at them. There's another!" he added, beginning to take off his shoes and stockings, while Murtagh practically suggested that some one had been throwing lime into the water.

But Winnie's sharp eyes saw the trout as soon as Bobbo, and she had the start of him, being already in the water; so, signing to the others to be quiet, she advanced cautiously up stream till she got close behind it, Bobbo pausing meanwhile with one boot in his hand to watch her success. Then, bending down, she quickly clasped her little brown hands under the trout, and with a successful jerk threw it high and dry on to a bit of rock.

"Hurrah!" shouted Murtagh. "She's got it. Come along, Bobbo; off with your other boot, and let's go up the river and try for some more."

"What shall we do with Ellie?" asked Rose. "There's no beach a little higher up where the river gets narrower, and she'll never be able to jump from one rock to another."

"Oh, she must manage somehow!" said Winnie. "Pull off your boots and socks, Ellie, and don't be afraid of the water, it won't hurt you."

Ellie looked very doubtfully at her feet, and then at the water, as if she did not at all like the prospect; however, Rosie didn't wait for her to make objections, but, pulling off the little boots, lifted her down into the stream, and then waded off herself after the others.

Ellie had her own ideas of duty, and knew what was expected of her when she was out with people bigger and stronger than herself; so after one shuddering exclamation, she tried bravely to do as the others did.

But she found it very hard work. The water was bitterly cold, and nearly up to her knees. She saw that the others twisted up their frocks, so she tried to twist hers up too, but could only get up one little bit at a time, and the rest dabbled against her legs. Soon the hem, and her petticoats, and the frills of her little white knickerbockers were wet. She was cold all over. The pebbles at the bottom hurt her feet. And then she didn't seem to get along one bit.

For a while she held tight on to the bit of frock that she was lifting up, and tried to encourage herself by saying half-aloud, "Ellie can walk in the river, too, Ellie can;" but the big blue eyes often filled with tears, and her little stock of heroism began to melt away.

At last there came a bend in the river; the water grew deeper; and Ellie, getting into a place where there was a slight current, was very nearly taken off her legs. She saved herself by catching at a rock, but when she looked up to call one of the others to help her she found that they were out of sight.

That was more than she could bear. She was all lost now, and never would be able to get out of the river, and it was no good trying to be brave, so she gave it all up, and sobbing out, "Oh, me is so told! me is so told!" she laid her head down on the rock and began to cry at the very top of her voice.

The others meanwhile had completely forgotten her. The fish were, as Murtagh thought, stupefied with lime, but not so as to be incapable of trying to save themselves from pursuing hands.

Not a soul did the children pass, except one disconsolate-looking little girl sitting upon the bank. But, bare-legged and bare-armed, their hats hanging down upon their backs, their hair blown wildly about, they splashed along in the bright cold water, or jumped from rock to rock, oblivious of everything save the speckled trout for which they looked so eagerly in the clear brown pools. Fortunately for Ellie, however, the thought of her flashed through Murtagh's mind.

"Why, Rosie," he exclaimed, "what's become of Ellie? she's not in sight."

The reflection caused some dismay among the children; but Bobbo volunteered to go back and fetch her, so they concluded that it was all right, and troubled themselves no further. Back he went accordingly, and Ellie's loud-voiced grief soon guided him to where she stood. But when he had comforted her, and rubbed her chilled legs warm, and wrung the water out of her skirt, and rolled up her damp knickerbockers, he found that she had had enough of trying to be heroic, and nothing would induce her to enter the water again.

There was no getting over it,—coaxing and scolding were alike in vain. Good-natured as he was, he was not going to lose his share in the fishing; so, putting her on his back, he just waded to shore, and trotted along the bank till he overtook the other children. They could settle together what was to be done with her.

He found them in a state of wild excitement. Winnie had that instant caught another fish, and Rosie displayed three shining trout caught by herself and Murtagh.

"That's five altogether!" shouted Murtagh. "And we're going up to Long Island, and light a fire and cook them. Rosie's got the cake tied up in her hat, so it's not a bit wet, and that'll be loads for our dinner."

"Oh, that will be glorious!" cried Bobbo. "But what'll we do with Ellie? she can't get along a bit in the water."

"Couldn't you take her through the woods?" suggested Rosie.

"And miss all the fishing!" replied Bobbo. "Thank you, I've missed enough already. I think it's your turn now."

"Oh, no, indeed it isn't," replied Rosie. "I have her all day long. It's only fair that you boys should have the trouble of her sometimes."

"It's always women who look after the babies," said Murtagh.

"Well, I'm not going to this time," said Rosie, decidedly. "Our pleasure is always spoilt with having to think about that tiresome child."

Little Ellie's head began to droop on to Bobbo's shoulder, as she looked anxiously at the children's faces. Still, though she was accustomed to be called tiresome, she did not like it; and besides, a terrible fear was arising in her mind that Rosie would make them leave her alone. The question was perplexing. The children knew that they couldn't leave her there alone; but then they could not give up their delightful expedition, and none of them were inclined to start off alone with her through the woods. What was to be done?

Suddenly a brilliant idea struck Winnie.

"That girl we saw sitting on the bank!" she exclaimed. "I think she comes out of one of our cottages. Let's get her to take Ellie through the woods. We'll give her some of our dinner, and it'll be great fun for her."

Springing lightly from rock to rock Winnie quickly disappeared in the direction she had pointed out.