Again some undefined feeling sealed Wych Hazel's lips. She lay
down as she was desired, and with her hand over her eyes
thought, and wondered, and fell asleep.

For some hours thereafter the sunbeams were hardly quieter
than the party they lighted on the miller's floor. Wych Hazel
slept; Mrs. Saddler was even more profoundly wrapped in
forgetfulness; Mr. Falkirk sat by keeping guard. The miller's
daughter had run up the hill to her home for a space. As to
Rollo, he had not been seen. His gun was his companion, and
with that it was usual for him to be in the woods much of the
time. He came back from his wanderings however as the day
began to fall, and now sat on a stone outside the mill door,
very busy. The little lake at his feet still and dark, with
the side of the woody glen doubled in its mirror, and the
sunlight in the tops of the trees reflected in golden glitter
from the middle of the pool, was a picture to tempt the eye:
but Rollo's eye, if it glanced, came back again. He was
picking the feathers from a bird he had shot, and doing it
deftly. Sauntering leisurely up the miller approached him.

'Now that's what I like,' he remarked; 'up to anything, eh?
You don't seem so much used up as the rest on 'em. Even the
little one talked herself to sleep at last!'

'Have you got a match, Mr. Miller?'

'No--I haven't,' said the man of flour--'I always light my pipe
with a burning glass. Won't that serve your turn? So there she