t least, an exaggeration? There was a model, with
horses, and a waggon--yes! But was she quite sure it was _her_ old
mill--her father's? How could she be sure of anything, when it was all
so long ago? Especially when her pulse was thumping, like this. Besides,
there was a distinct fact that told against the identity of this model
and the one it was so bewilderingly like; to wit--the size of it. That
old model of sixty years ago was twice the size of this. She knew that,
because she could remember her own hand on it, flat at the top. Her hand
and Phoebe's together!--she remembered the incident plainly.

Here was Mrs. Thrale back with the gruel. How dear and kind she was! But
a horrible thought kept creeping into old Maisie's mind. Was she--a
liar? Had she not said that it was her grandfather's mill? Now that
could _not_ be true. If she had said great-uncle.... Well!--would that
have made it any better? On reflection, certainly not! For _her_ father
had had neither brother nor sister. It was a relief to put speculation
aside and accept the gruel.

She made one or two slight attempts to recur to the mill. But her
hostess made no response; merely discouraged conversation on every
topic. Mrs. Prichard had better not talk any more. The thing for her to
do was to take her gruel and go to sleep. Perhaps it was. A reaction of
fatigue added powerful arguments on the same side, and she was fain to
surrender at discretion.

She must have slept for over six hours, for when the sudden sound of an
early bird awakened her the dawn was creeping into the house. The window
of her own room was shuttered and curtained, but she saw a line of
daylight under the door. No one was moving yet. She instantly remembered
all the events she had gone to sleep upon; the recollection of the
mill-model in particular rushing at her aggressively, almost producing
physical pain, like a blow. She knew there was another pain to come
behind it, as soon as her ideas became collected. Yes--there it was!
This dear lovable woman whom she had been so glad of, after the
duplicity of those servants at the Towers, was as untrustworthy as they,
and the whole world was a cheat! How else could it be, when she had
heard her with her own ears say that that mill had belonged to her
grandfather?

She lay and chafed, a helpless nervous system dominated by a cruel idea.
Was there no way out? Only one--that she herself had been duped by her
own imagination. But then, how wa