ery ill; she has just begun to sit up;
and her father has driven her to mill work again this morning.
The mother says she knows the girl will die.'

'Driven her to work!' said Hazel. 'What for?'

'Money. For her wages.'

'What nonsense!' said Hazel, knitting her brows. 'Why, I can
pay that! Tell her so, please, will you? And tell her to send
Truedchen down to Chickaree for Mrs. Bywank and me to cure her
up. She will never get well here.'

Rollo gave a swift bright look at his companion, and then made
three leaps up the bank to the cottage door. He came down
again smiling, but there was a suspicious veiling of his sharp
eyes.

'She will cry no more to-day,' he remarked to Wych Hazel. 'And
now you have done some work.'

'Have I?'--with a half laugh. 'But instead of wanting to rest,
I feel like doing some more. So you have made a mistake
somewhere, Mr. Rollo.'

There came as she spoke, a buzz of other voices, issuing from
another mill just before them; voices trained in the higher
notes, and knowing little of the minor key. And forth from the
opening door came a gay knot of people,--feathers and flowers
and colours, with a black coat here and there; one of which
made a short way to Miss Kennedy's side.

'Where have you been?' said Captain Lancaster, after a
courteous recognition of Mr. Rollo. 'You have been driving us
all to despair?'

'People that are driven to despair never go,' said Wych Hazel;
'so you are all safe.'

'And you are all yourself. That is plain. Why were you not at
Fox Hill? But you are coming to Valley Garden to-morrow?'

'I think not. At least, I am sure not.'

'Then to the ball at Crocus?'

'No.'

'My dear Hazel!' and 'My dear Miss Kennedy!' now sounded from
so many female voices in different keys of surprise and
triumph, that for a minute or two the hum was
indistinguishable. Questions came on the heels of one another
incongruously. Then as the gentlemen fell together in a knot
to discuss their horses, the tongues of the women had a little
more liberty than was good for them.

'You have been riding, Hazel; where are your horses?'

'Where have you been?'

'O, you've been going over a mill! A _cotton_ mill? Horrid! What
is the fun of a cotton mill? what did you go there for?'

'What sort of a mill have you been over?' said Hazel.

'O, the silk mill. Such lovely colours, and cunning little
silk-winders,--it's so funny! But where have you been all this
age, Hazel? you have bee