CHAPTER VIII.

THE MILL FLOOR.

The place was a dell in the woods, the bottom filled with a dark, clear little lake.  At the lower end of it stood the mill; picturesque enough under the trees, with its great doors opening upon the lake.  On the floor within could be seen the bags of flour and grain piled about, and the miller passing to and fro.  It was deeply still; the light came cool and green through the oaks and maples and ashes; the trickling of water was heard.  Dark slept the little lake, overshadowed by the leafy banks which shut it in; the only chief spot of light was the miller’s open door, where the sunbeams lit up his bags and him; the mill-stream brawled away somewhere below, and beyond the mill the road curled away out of sight to mount the hill again.  This was Braddock’s mill.

Mr. Falkirk got out, and then Mr. Rollo helped out the women and Mrs. Saddler, who was confused out of all her proprieties, for she pushed before her young lady; finally Wych Hazel.

‘How do you do?’ said he, scanning her.

Apparently the dizziness had not gone off, for she raised her head and came out of the coach in the slowest and most mechanical way, lifting her hand and pushing back her hair with a weary sort of gesture as he spoke.  So weary her face was, so utterly subdued, it might have touched anybody to see it.  It never seemed to occur to her that the question needed an answer.

‘Your best chance is the mill,’ said he; ’I think you can rest there.  At any rate, it is your chance.’

He put her hand upon his arm and led her down the few steps of rocky way to the mill door.  Mr. Falkirk followed.  The women had paired off to seek the miller’s house, out of sight above on the bank.  Only Mrs. Saddler came after Mr. Falkirk.

The mill floor was large, cool and clean; that is, in the shade, and with the exception of the dust of flour on everything.  Mr. Falkirk entered into explanations with the miller; while Rollo, after a brief word of leave-asking, proceeded to arrange a pile of grain bags so as to form an extempore divan.  Harder might be; and over it he spread the gentlemen’s linen dusters and all the travelling shawls of the party; and upon it then softly placed Wych Hazel.  Poor child! she was used to cushions, and in need of them, from the way she dropped down among these.  She had thrown off her hat, and Mr. Falkirk stopped and unfastened her mantle, and softly began to pull off one of her gloves; the miller’s daughter, a fair, plump, yellow-haired damsel, coming out from among the grain bins, began upon the other.

‘What’s happened here?’ said she, pityingly.

‘Have you anything this lady could eat?’ was the counter-question.  ’She is exhausted; fire in the woods drove us out of the way.’

’Do tell!  I heard say the woods was all afire.  Why there’s enough in the house, but it ain’t here.  We live up the hill a ways.  I’ll start and fetch something—­only say what.  O here’s this, if she’s fainted.’—­And producing a very amulet-looking bottle of salts, suspended round her neck by a blue ribband, she at once administered a pretty powerful whiff.  With great suddenness Wych Hazel laid hold of the little smelling bottle, opening her brown eyes to their fullest extent and exclaiming: