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“Did you get him?” they said.

“I did,” he answered; “forty-eight pounds. Hold up that fish, Louis!”

“Magnificent,” they cried, “a great fish! You’ve done it! But, man, do you know what time it is? Five minutes to ten o’clock!”

Nearly ten, and twenty miles of rough river and road to cover before high noon. Was it possible? In a second it flashed upon Chichester what he had done, what a fearful situation he must face. “Come on, you fellows,” he cried, stepping back into the canoe. “Now, Louis, shove her as you never shoved before! Ten dollars apiece if you make the upper landing in half an hour.”

The other canoe followed immediately. They found the two buckboards waiting, and scrambled in, explaining to the drivers the necessity for the utmost haste. Chichester’s horse was a scrawny, speedy little beast, called Le Coq Noir, the champion trotter of the region. “He, Coq!” shouted the driver, flourishing his whip, at the top of the first long hill; and they started off at a breakneck pace. They passed through the village of Sacre Coeur a mile and a half ahead of the other wagon. But on the first steep cote beyond the village, the inevitable happened. The buckboard went slithering down the slippery slope of clay, struck a log bridge at the bottom with a resounding thump, and broke an axle clean across. The wheel flew off, and the buckboard came to the ground, and Chichester and the driver tumbled out. The Black Cock gave a couple of leaps and then stood still, looking back with an expression of absolute dismay.

There was nothing to do but wait for the other buckboard, which arrived in ten or fifteen minutes. “Will you have the kindness to lend me your carriage?” said Chichester elaborately. “Oh, don’t talk! Get out quick. You can walk!” They changed horses quickly, and Chichester took the reins and drove on. Quarter past eleven; half past; quarter to twelve–and three miles yet to go! It was barely possible to do it. And perhaps it would have been done, if at that moment the good little Black Cock had not stumbled on a loose stone, gone down almost to his knees, and recovered himself with a violent wrench–lame! Chichester was a fair runner and a good walker. But he knew that the steep sandy hills which lay between him and Tadousac could never be covered in fifteen minutes. He gave the reins to the driver, leaned back in the seat, and folded his arms.

At twenty-five minutes past twelve the buckboard passed slowly down the main street of Tadousac, bumped deliberately across the bridge, and drew up before the hotel. The little white chapel on the other side of the road was shut, deserted, sleeping in the sunlight. On the long hotel piazza were half a dozen groups of strangers, summer visitors, evidently in a state of suppressed curiosity and amusement. They fell silent as the disconsolate vehicle came to a halt, and Arthur Asham, the Harvard brother, in irreproachable morning costume and perfect form, moved forward to meet it.

“Well?” said Chichester, as he stepped out.

“Well!” answered the other; and they went a few paces together on the lawn, shaking hands politely and looking at each other with unspoken interrogations.

“I’m awfully sorry,” Chichester said, “but it couldn’t be helped. A chapter of accidents–I’ll explain.”

“My dear fellow,” answered young Asham, “what good will that do? You needn’t explain to me, and you can’t explain to Ethel. She is in her most lofty and impossible mood. She’ll never listen to you. I’m awfully sorry, too, but I fear it’s all over. In fact, she has driven down to the wharf with the others to wait for the Quebec boat, which goes at one. I am staying to get the luggage together and bring it on to-morrow. She gave me this note for you. Will you read it?”

Asham politely turned away, and Chichester read:

MY DEAR MR. CHICHESTER:

Fortunate indeed is the disillusion which does not come too late. But the bridegroom who comes too late is known in time.

You may be sure that I have no resentment at what you have done; I have risen to those heights where anger is unknown. But I now see clearly what I have long felt dimly–that your soul does not keep time with the music to which my life is set. I do not know what other engagement kept you away. I do not ask to know. I know only that ours is at an end, and you are at liberty to return to your fishing. That you will succeed in it is the expectation of

Your well-wisher, E. ASHAM.

Chichester’s chin dropped a little as he read. For the first time in his life he looked undecided. Then he folded the note carefully, put it in the breast pocket of his coat, and turned to his companion.

“You will be going up in to-morrow’s boat, I suppose. Shall we go together?”

“My dear fellow,” said Arthur Asham, “really, you know–I should be delighted. But do you think it would be quite the thing?”