Norman was afraid of getting out, lest his sister should run off with the carriage, and as she could not now be struck, she dragged it home as fast as she could go.

Mr Maclean seemed somewhat surprised to see his young friends return so soon.

Norman lost his excursion, and f.a.n.n.y, in her kindness, thinking that he was sufficiently punished, did not say how he had treated her.

CHAPTER FIVE.

IN THE HIGHLANDS.

"I hope you had a pleasant excursion, my dears, on the moor," said Mrs Maclean, when they entered the house.

"Oh, we had very good fun, and we should have had more if f.a.n.n.y would have gone farther," answered Norman. "She cannot stand jokes, and because I just touched her with my stick she would not go on."

f.a.n.n.y cast a reproachful glance at Norman. She had determined not to complain of him, and now he was trying to make it appear that he had come back through her want of temper. This was very hard indeed to bear, but she did not attempt to defend herself, for she knew that her granny would be aware of the truth, and that satisfied her, and she was unwilling to make her little brother appear to disadvantage in the eyes of their hostess.

"I shall be very happy to take Norman out again whenever he likes, and I hope that I shall be able to draw him farther than I did to-day," she said quietly.

Mrs Maclean was a very kind lady, an old friend of their granny's, and f.a.n.n.y thought her very like her; she had the same quiet, but yet firm, manner, and she seemed to take an interest in what she and Norman said and did, and to be anxious to amuse them.

Mr Maclean was a Highland gentleman who preferred spending his days among his native moors and heathery hills, to living in a town and mixing in the world.

Norman whispered to f.a.n.n.y that he thought he was an old farmer, when he first saw him in his tartan shooting-coat and trowsers, with a bonnet on his head, a plaid over his shoulders, and a thick stick in his hand.

Old as he was, however, he could walk many a mile over those heathery hills he loved so well, and not only Norman, but Norman's papa, might have had some difficulty in keeping up with him. He was as kind as Mrs Maclean, and soon took a great fancy to f.a.n.n.y; Norman discovered that, somehow or other, he did not stand so well in his opinion.

The laird, as he was called, now entered the room--"Well, young people, you took but a short excursion to-day," he observed; "perhaps, Mistress f.a.n.n.y, you found the carriage rather heavy to drag, and if you have a fancy for a row on the loch, as I am going down after luncheon to try and catch a few trout for dinner, I shall be glad to take you with me."

"Oh, thank you, Mr Maclean, I should so like to go," answered f.a.n.n.y.

"May we, mamma? may we, granny?"

Mrs Leslie and her mamma willingly gave their consent.

"I must ask you to take care that Norman does not tumble into the water, though," said Mrs Vallery.

"I will make a line fast to the young gentleman's leg, and soon haul him out again if he does," answered Mr Maclean, laughing.

"I can take very good care of myself, thank you," said Norman; "but I should like to see you catch some fish, if they are good big ones."

"There are not finer in any loch in Scotland, but they will not always rise to the fly," observed Mr Maclean.

As soon as luncheon was over, the laird, carrying his rod and fishing-basket, and accompanied by his two young friends, set off for the loch. On their way they were joined by Sandy Fraser, a tall, thin, old man, with grey hairs escaping from under his bonnet. Sandy had been Mr Maclean's constant attendant from his boyhood, and had followed him to many parts of the world which he had visited before he settled down in his Highland home.

On reaching the loch, they found a boat, and Sandy took the oars. The two children were placed in the centre, Mr Maclean took his seat in the stern, and Sandy rowed away towards the further end of the loch. On one side the hills, with here and there bare, grey rocks appearing on their steep sides, rose directly out of the water, and were reflected on its calm surface.

"Why, the hills are standing on their heads," exclaimed Norman, who for the first time in his life had witnessed such a scene.

Rowing on, they pa.s.sed several pretty islands covered thickly with trees, among which, f.a.n.n.y said, she should like to have a hut and live like Robinson Crusoe.

"No, I should be Robinson Crusoe, and you should be Friday," exclaimed Norman, who knew the story, as it was in one of f.a.n.n.y's picture-books.

"Young gentleman, you should be proud of working for your sister,"

observed the laird, who was busy getting his fishing-tackle ready. "It is far more manly to work for others, than to let others work for you."

Norman held his tongue, for he had an opinion that he had better not contradict the old gentleman as he was accustomed to do other persons.

f.a.n.n.y watched Mr Maclean with great curiosity, as, at length having reached a spot where, the breeze playing over the surface, he expected the fish to rise, he began to throw the little fly at the end of his long line. Now he made it skim the water from one side to the other, now he drew it towards him, always keeping it in motion, just as a real fly would play over the surface. On a sudden there was a splash, and for an instant the head of a fish was seen above the surface, and the tip of the light rod bending, the line ran rapidly out of his reel. The laird began at length to wind up the line, in vain the poor fish swam here and there, it could not get the sharp hook out of its mouth.

Sandy, laying in his oars, got the landing-net ready. The rod was so light that it could not have borne the weight of the fish, but by putting the net beneath it he easily lifted it into the boat.

"Oh, what a fine fish," exclaimed f.a.n.n.y, as she examined the large loch trout which had been caught; "what delicate colours it has! How beautifully it is marked on the back!"

"We must get a few more, though, to make up our dish," said Mr Maclean, getting his line ready for another throw.

A second unwary trout was soon caught, and a third, and a fourth.

"I should like to fish too," exclaimed Norman. "Won't you let me have your long stick and string, Mr Maclean? It seems very easy, and I am sure I should soon catch some."

The laird laughed heartily.

"You are more likely to tumble into the water, and then we should have to catch you, young gentleman," he answered. "It will take a good many years before you can throw a fly, let me tell you."

Norman was not convinced.

"I'll get Sandy to row me out some day."

"He is welcome to do that; but remember, you must not be tumbling overboard."

"I can take very good care of myself," answered Norman, folding his arms, and trying to look very grand.

A broad grin came over the countenance of Sandy, who knew enough of English to understand him. He nodded to his master.

"If he comes with me I will take gude care of the child, and maybe he will catch a big trout some day; and you will come, young lady, and I will teach you to catch fish too," he said, turning to f.a.n.n.y.

"Oh, I am sure I should not like to ran a hook into their mouths, it must hurt them so dreadfully," answered f.a.n.n.y.

"They are given to us for food, my little girl," observed Mr Maclean, "and most conscientiously I believe they suffer no real pain, and although the instinct of self-preservation makes them wish to escape, I doubt even whether they are frightened when they feel the hook in their mouths."

Still f.a.n.n.y was incredulous, and thought she should never agree with the laird on that point.

"I do not care whether the fish are hurt or not if I want to catch them," observed Norman, showing his usual indifference to the feelings of others, whether human beings or animals.

f.a.n.n.y enjoyed the row very much, and thanked Sandy for offering to take her and Norman out.

They reached home in time to have the trout dressed for dinner, and the laird insisted that the children should come down, and partake of some of the fish which they, as he said, had a.s.sisted to catch.

The laird was fond of the study of natural history, and narrated a number of anecdotes especially of the sagacity of animals.

"f.a.n.n.y and I have a difference of opinion as to whether fish when caught do or do not feel pain," he observed. "I remember reading an anecdote which, if true, supports what she thinks. A surgeon was one day walking by the side of a pond in a gentleman's grounds in England, when he saw a large pike, which had struck its head against a piece of iron projecting from a sunken log, and was struggling in the water close to the bank.

The fish did not attempt to swim away, nor did it seem alarmed, when the surgeon stooped down, and lifted it gently out of the water. He at once saw that the jaw of the fish had been broken, and with his penknife and some strips of wood and linen, which he had in his pocket, he dexterously managed to bind up the jaw, after doing which, he placed the fish in the water. It did not even then swim away, but as long as he remained on the bank, kept watching him attentively.