mill brought him a good deal of money. He had no relations, but
hoped to have a very near one--a wife. This was Anne Grey, the
blacksmith's daughter, who was as pretty as she was winsome. She was
fond of pretty things too, flowers especially, so it was Tom's delight
to gratify her fancy.

For this reason he bought Brooks's cottage, which had a lovely garden.
And week by week he purchased this or that to make his cottage pretty
and home-like for his bride. It would be difficult to tell how much
pleasure Tom found in furnishing this cottage. He would wander in the
garden-paths among the rose-bushes, smiling to himself as he thought of
the many surprises in store for Anne. But a surprise was in store for
him which was not at all pleasant. Anne Grey married some one else.

When Tom heard it, he locked up the pretty cottage, put the key in his
pocket, and went to the mill to live. To Anne he spoke no word, though
he saw her with her husband coming from the church. In fact, he spoke
to no one, but did his work at the mill like a man in a dream. Some
there were who tried to break through his stony reserve, but no one
succeeded. Tom Lecky had become hard and soured. He remained alone in
the mill--except for the mice, and for these he set traps. He caught a
great many, and plunged them, trap and all, into a bucket of water.
When he found a trap with a mouse in it he would look at the little
creature beating itself against its prison, turning rapidly round,
forcing its pointed nose between the wire bars, while its long tail
hung down through the bars on the other side. He would watch the
bright little eyes almost start from their sockets in fear and agony,
and yet no feeling of sorrow or pity came into his heart for the tiny
captive, and after a time with a smile on his face he would drown the
little creature. Could this be the Tom Lecky who had had almost the
tenderness of a woman at the sight of pain?

Tom's "living-room" was in the basement of the mill. In it were a
table, a chair, a bed, and a cupboard. There was also a hanging
bookshelf, with a row of books on it, which Tom never opened now.
Through the ceiling of this room descended a ladder white with flour.
If you climbed this ladder you found yourself in a room smothered with
flour-dust, and your ears were almost deafened by the sound of the
machinery overhead which the wind-impelled mill-wheel kept in motion,
while the descending stream of ground flou