I
don't know a blessed thing more."

Helen sighed happily.

"I hope she has a September wedding, all gold and purple. It would just
suit Jean. If one could only dress her in violet velvet with a girdle of
amethysts set with pearls, and braid her hair with strands of jewels, too.
Jean always has that far-away look, in her eyes that princesses should
have."

"Well, I don't see where you get your princess pattern from," remarked
Kit. "From all the recent pictures that I've seen, they're a very
ordinary, old-fashioned lot of young persons, and decidedly at the
dumpling stage. Besides, Jean herself might have something to say about
it. It will be her wedding, you know, Helen."

They had walked down to the Peckham mill after supper to get some supplies
that Danny Peckham had promised to bring up from Nantic. Just as they came
to the turn of the road there came a strange sound from the direction of
the waterfall tent, deep, rich strains of music, almost as low pitched and
thrilling as the sound of the water itself. Both girls stood stock still
listening, until Helen whispered:

"It must be Mr. Ormond. He's playing on something, isn't he?"

"A 'cello, child," Kit said, drawing in a deep breath as though she could
fairly inhale the sweetness of the music on the night air. "I haven't
heard one since we left the Cove, and it's mother's favorite music. I
wish I knew what he's playing. It sounds like Solveig's song from Peer
Gynt, and I love that."

"Then, that's what he does." Helen's tone held a touch of admiring awe as
she listened. "And we thought he might be anything from a counterfeiter to
an escaped convict hiding away up here. Oh, Kit, why do you suppose he
keeps away from every one?"

"Probably got a hidden sorrow," Kit answered. "Still he's got a terrible
appetite. Mrs. Gorham says she doesn't see how he ever puts away the
amount of food he does. He buys whole roast chickens and eats them all
himself."

Just then the music ceased suddenly. The flap of the tent lifted towards
the roadway, and Mr. Ormond sent a hail across the twilight gloom.

"Is that you, Shad?"

"No, sir, it's just us girls," answered Kit. "We're going down to the
mill."

"Would you mind so very much, Miss Kit, asking if any one has telephoned
a telegram up for me from the station? I am expecting one."

"There, you see," Helen said, dubiously, as they went on down the road.
"We just get rid of one mystery, and he hands us another one to