Blix's cheeks were ruddy, her little dark-brown eyes fairly coruscating with pleasure.
"Condy, isn't it all splendid ?" she suddenly burst out.
"I feel regularly bigger," he declared solemnly.

"I could do anything a morning like this." Then they came to the lake, and to Richardson's, where the farmer lived who was also the custodian of the lake.

The complacent horse jogged back, and Condy and Blix set about the serious business of the day.
Condy had no need to show Richardson the delightful sporting clerk's card.

The old Yankee--his twang and dry humor singularly incongruous on that royal morning--was solicitude itself.

He picked out the best boat on the beach for them, loaned them his own anchor of railroad iron, indicated minutely the point on the opposite shore off which the last big trout had been "killed," and wetted himself to his ankles as he pushed off the boat.
Condy took the oars.