the village, to see whether she would stop at the
mill, or pass it.

She stopped at the mill, secured the boat, and stepped on shore.

Taking a key from her pocket, she was about to open the door of the
cottage, when I advanced and spoke to her. As far from recognizing her as
ever, I found myself nevertheless thinking of an odd outspoken child,
living at the mill in past years, who had been one of my poor mother's
favorites at our village school. I ran the risk of offending her, by
bluntly expressing the thought which was then in my mind.

"Is it possible that you are Cristel Toller?" I said.

The question seemed to amuse her. "Why shouldn't I be Cristel Toller?"
she asked.

"You were a little girl," I explained, "when I saw you last. You are so
altered now--and so improved--that I should never have guessed you might
be the daughter of Giles Toller of the mill, if I had not seen you
opening the cottage door."

She acknowledged my compliment by a curtsey, which reminded me again of
the village school. "Thank you, young man," she said smartly; "I wonder
who you are?"

"Try if you can recollect me," I suggested.

"May I take a long look at you?"

"As long as you like."

She studied my face, with a mental effort to remember me, which gathered
her pretty eyebrows together quaintly in a frown.

"There's something in his eyes," she remarked, not speaking to me but to
herself, "which doesn't seem to be quite strange. But I don't know his
voice, and I don't know his beard." She considered a little, and
addressed herself directly to me once more. "Now I look at you again, you
seem to be a gentleman. Are you one?"

"I hope so."

"Then you're not making game of me?"

"My dear, I am only trying if you can remember Gerard Roylake."

While in charge of the boat, the miller's daughter had been rowing with
bared arms; beautiful dusky arms, at once delicate and strong. Thus far,
she had forgotten to cover them up. The moment mentioned my name, she
started back as if I had frightened her--pulled her sleeves down in a
hurry--and hid the objects of my admiration as an act of homage to
myself! Her verbal apologies followed.

"You used to be such a sweet-spoken pretty little boy," she said, "how
should I know you again, with a big voice and all that hair on your
face?" It seemed to strike her on a sudden that she had been too
familiar. "Oh, Lord," I heard her say to herself, "half the county
belongs to him!" She tried an