olls, and she
loved none better.

Once, exploring around the mill, she entered a barn, and found there an
old caravan that once had been gaily painted and now stood in all the
shabbiness of departed glory. She had the curiosity to investigate its
interior, and found there a miniature bedroom neatly furnished.

"That's Mr. Rivington's," the miller's wife told her. "He will often run
down to fish in the summer, and then he likes it pulled out into the bit
of wood yonder by the water, and spends the night there. It's a funny
fancy, I often think."

"I should love it," said Ernestine.

She wrote to Rivington that night, her second letter since her arrival,
and told him of her discovery. She added, "When are you coming down
again? There are plenty of trout in the stream." And she posted the
letter herself at the little thatched post-office, with a small,
strictly private smile. Oh, no, she wasn't bored, of course! But it
would be rather fun if he came.

On the evening of the following day, she was returning from her
customary stroll along the stream, when she spied a water-lily, yellow
and splendid, floating, as is the invariable custom of these flowers,
just out of reach from the bank. She made several attempts to secure it,
each failure only serving to increase her determination. Finally, the
evening being still and warm, and her desire for the pretty thing not to
be denied, she slipped off shoes and stockings and slid cautiously into
the stream. It bubbled deliciously round her ankles, sending exquisite
cold thrills through and through her. She secured her prize, and gave
herself up unreservedly to the enjoyment thereof.

An unmistakable whiff of tobacco-smoke awoke her from her dream of
delight. She turned swiftly, the lily in one hand, her skirt clutched in
the other.

"Don't be alarmed," said a quiet, casual voice. "It's only me."

"Only you!" she echoed, blushing crimson. "I wasn't expecting anyone
just now."

"Oh, but I don't count," he said. He was standing on the bank above her,
looking down upon her with eyes so kindly that she found it impossible
to be vexed with him, or even embarrassed after that first moment.

She reached up her hand to him.

"I'm coming out."

He took the small wrist, and helped her ashore. She looked up at him and
laughed.

"I'm glad you've come," she said simply.

"Thank you," he returned, equally simply. "How are you getting on?"

"Oh, beautifully! I'm as happy as the d