CHAPTER SIXTEEN.
HOW MARK'S SISTER LOST HER WHIP.
Fate seemed to be determined that the young people of the rival families should become intimate, in spite of all the stringent rules laid down by the heads; for Ralph was out one day, making a round, when it occurred to him that he would call upon Master Rayburn, to let him see how well the wound was healing up, and to say a few words of thanks to the old man for his kindness and attention.
He found the object of his visit seated in a kind of grotto, shaded by a great sycamore, with his doublet off, hat on the floor, and beautifully white sleeves rolled up, busily at work, tying up some peculiar little combinations of wool, hair, and feathers, to the back of a hook; and as the lad approached, he held up the curious object by the piece of horsehair to which it was tied.
"Well, patient," he said, "what do you think of that ?" "Nothing at all," cried the lad.

"No fish would ever take that.

What do you call it ?" "A bumble-bee, and the fish will take it, Mr Cleversides; but not if they see a big lubberly boy staring at them with his arm in a sling, or an old grey-headed man, either, Ralph.

There, don't frown.

It's very nice to be a big lubberly boy; much better than being a worn-out old man, with not much longer to live.