inging of delicate-scented flowers.
I myself never loved the beech-wood better than did our Muriel. She
used continually to tell us this was the happiest spring she had ever
had in her life.

John was much occupied now. He left his Norton Bury business under
efficient care, and devoted himself almost wholly to the cloth-mill.
Early and late he was there. Very often Muriel and I followed him, and
spent whole mornings in the mill meadows. Through them the stream on
which the machinery depended was led by various contrivances, checked
or increased in its flow, making small ponds, or locks, or waterfalls.
We used to stay for hours listening to its murmur, to the sharp,
strange cry of the swans that were kept there, and the twitter of the
water-hen to her young among the reeds. Then the father would come to
us and remain a few minutes--fondling Muriel, and telling me how things
went on at the mill.

One morning, as we three sat there, on the brick-work of a little
bridge, underneath an elm tree, round the roots of which the water made
a pool so clear, that we could see a large pike lying like a black
shadow, half-way down; John suddenly said:

"What is the matter with the stream? Do you notice, Phineas?"

"I have seen it gradually lowering--these two hours. I thought you
were drawing off the water."

"Nothing of the kind--I must look after it. Good-bye, my little
daughter. Don't cling so fast; father will be back soon--and isn't
this a sweet sunny place for a little maid to be lazy in?"

His tone was gay, but he had an anxious look. He walked rapidly down
the meadows, and went into his mill. Then I saw him retracing his
steps, examining where the stream entered the bounds of his property.
Finally, he walked off towards the little town at the head of the
valley--beyond which, buried in woods, lay Luxmore Hall. It was two
hours more before we saw him again.

Then he came towards us, narrowly watching the stream. It had sunk
more and more--the muddy bottom was showing plainly.

"Yes--that's it--it can be nothing else! I did not think he would have
dared to do it."

"Do what, John? Who?"

"Lord Luxmore." He spoke in the smothered tones of violent passion.
"Lord Luxmore has turned out of its course the stream that works my
mill."

I tried to urge that such an act was improbable; in fact, against the
law.

"Not against the law of the great against the little. Besides, he
gives a decent colouring--