ford her merriment, and she laughed again.
"Come, hurry along with me," she continued. "It's the old mill. I know
the way in, and there's a warm fire there. You'll have to run, though,
for I'm getting soaked through." And she started off ahead of them, like
a will-o'-the-wisp.

"Here, hold on a minute," called Henry Burns, who had gallantly
divested himself of his sweater, while the rain drops splashed coldly on
his bare arms. "Put this on. I don't need it."

But she tripped on, unheeding; and twice, in their strange flight toward
the mill, the lightning revealed her to them--a flitting, odd little
thing, like a figure in a dream. Indeed, when they saw her, darting
across the bridge over the brook, just ahead of them, they would
scarcely have been surprised had she vanished, as witches do that dare
not cross running water.

But she kept on, and they came presently, all out of breath, in the
shadow of the old mill. The three gained the shelter of a roof
overhanging a narrow platform that ran along one side, and paused for a
moment to rest.

It was a dismal place, by night, but the child seemed at ease and
without fear.

"I know every inch of the old mill," she said, as though by way of
reassurance. "You've just got to look out where you step, and you're all
right."

Had it not offered some sort of shelter from the storm, however, the
place would hardly have appealed to Harvey and Henry Burns. The aged
building seemed to creak and sway in the wind, as though it might fall
apart from weakness and topple into the water. The stream plunged over
the dam with a sullen roar, much as if it chafed at the barrier and
longed to sweep it altogether from its course and carry its timbers with
it. Once the lightning flashed into and through all the cobwebbed
window-panes, and the mill gave out a ghastly glare.

"Nice, cheerful place for a night's lodging," remarked Henry Burns.
"Perhaps we'd better roost right here. I don't exactly take a fancy to
the rickety old shell."

"Oh, but it's lovely when you're inside," exclaimed the child, almost
reprovingly. "There's the meal-bags to sleep on. And look, you can see
the stove, in through the window, red with the fire. It keeps things dry
in the mill. I've slept there twice, when gran' was after me with a
stick."

"All alone?" asked Henry Burns, looking at the child wonderingly, and
feeling a sudden pity for her.

"Why yes," said she. "There's nothing to be afraid of--only rats.