was built;
and that antiquarians were at variance upon these points, and had made
all sorts of guesses about its origin. Some insisted that it was
erected by the Norsemen, who were the first to discover the New England
shores, long before the days of Columbus; others supposed it to be a
fragment of an ancient church. Others again--and Mrs. Gray supposed that
these last were probably nearest the truth--insisted that it was just
what it seemed to be, a mill for grinding corn; and pointed out the fact
that mills of very much the same shape still exist in old country
neighborhoods in England. She also told Cannie that the mill used to be
thickly overhung with ivies and Virginia creepers, and that it had never
been so pretty and picturesque since the town authorities, under a
mistaken apprehension that the roots of the vines were injuring the
masonry, had torn them all away and left the ruin bare and unornamented,
as she now saw it.

"Did you never read Longfellow's 'Skeleton in Armor'?" she asked; and
when Cannie said no, she repeated part of the poem, and promised to find
the rest for Cannie to read when they got home. Then they drove on; and
Cannie's head was so full of "Lief the son of Arnulf," the "fearful
guest," and the maiden whose heart under her loosened vest fluttered
like doves "in their nest frighted," that she could hardly bring herself
back to real life, even when Cousin Kate stopped at a famous
dress-furnisher's in the Casino Block, and caused her to be measured for
two dresses. One was of white woollen stuff, like those which Georgie
and Gertrude had worn the night before; the other, a darker one, of
cream-and-brown foulard, which Mrs. Gray explained would be nice for
church and for driving and for cool days, of which there were always
plenty in the Newport summer. She also bought a little brown parasol for
Cannie, and a tightly fitting brown jacket to match the foulard; and
altogether it was a most exciting and adventurous morning. Cannie, as
she took off her hat at home and fluffed the newly constructed "bang"
into shape with gentle finger-touches, asked herself if it could be
really only a day and a half since she said good-by to Aunt Myra in
North Tolland; and if in fact it were really herself, little Candace
Arden, to whom these wonderful things belonged, or was it some one else?
Perhaps it was all a dream, and she should presently wake up. "If it be
I, as I believe it be," was the tenor of her thought