showed green under an open beech and maple woods. On the
hither side of the pond an orchard ran down hill to the water's edge,
and at the nearer corner of the dam, among a clump of ancient willows,
stood the Old Stone Mill, with house attached, and across the mill yard
the shed and barn, all neat as a tidy housewife's kitchen. To the left
of the mill, with its green turf-clad dam and placid gleaming pond,
wandered off green fields of many shading colours, through which ran the
Mill Creek, foaming as if enraged that it should have been even for a
brief space paused in its flow to serve another's will. Then, beyond the
many-shaded fields, woods again, spruce and tamarack, where the stream
entered, and maple and beech on the higher levels. That was one way to
the mill, the way the farmers took with their grist or their oats for
old Charley Boyle to grind.

The other way came in by the McKenzies' lane from the Concession Line,
which ran at right angles to the sideroad. This was a mere foot path,
sometimes used by riders who came for a bag of flour or meal when the
barrel or bin had unawares run low. This path led through the beech
and maple woods to the farther end of the dam, where it divided, to the
right if one wished to go to the mill yard, and across the dam if one
wished to reach the house. From any point of view the Old Stone Mill,
with its dam and pond, its surrounding woods and fields and orchard,
made a picture of rare loveliness, and suggestive of deep fulness of
peace. At least, the woman standing at the dam, where the shade of the
willows fell, found it so. The beauty, the quiet of the scene, rested
her; the full sweet harmony of those many voices in which Nature pours
forth herself on a summer day, stole in upon her heart and comforted
her. She was a woman of striking appearance. Tall and straight she
stood, a figure full of strength; her dark face stamped with features
that bespoke her Highland ancestry, her black hair shot with silver
threads, parting in waves over her forehead; her eyes deep set, black
and sombre, glowing with that mystic light that shines only in eyes that
have for generations peered into the gloom of Highland glens.

"Ay, it's a bonny spot," she sighed, her rugged face softening as she
gazed. "It's a bonny spot, and it would be a sore thing to part it."

As she stood looking and listening her face changed. Through the hum of
the mill there pierced now and then the notes of a violin.

"