came from a well-mounted soldier near him, who did not, however,
form one of the watering party. Anne could not see his face very
clearly, but she had no doubt that this was John Loveday.

There were tones in the voice which reminded her of old times, those
of her very infancy, when Johnny Loveday had been top boy in the
village school, and had wanted to learn painting of her father. The
deeps and shallows of the mill-pond being better known to him than
to any other man in the camp, he had apparently come down on that
account, and was cautioning some of the horsemen against riding too
far in towards the mill-head.

Since her childhood and his enlistment Anne had seen him only once,
and then but casually, when he was home on a short furlough. His
figure was not much changed from what it had been; but the many
sunrises and sunsets which had passed since that day, developing her
from a comparative child to womanhood, had abstracted some of his
angularities, reddened his skin, and given him a foreign look. It
was interesting to see what years of training and service had done
for this man. Few would have supposed that the white and the blue
coats of miller and soldier covered the forms of father and son.

Before the last troop of dragoons rode off they were welcomed in a
body by Miller Loveday, who still stood in his outer garden, this
being a plot lying below the mill-tail, and stretching to the
water-side. It was just the time of year when cherries are ripe,
and hang in clusters under their dark leaves. While the troopers
loitered on their horses, and chatted to the miller across the
stream, he gathered bunches of the fruit, and held them up over the
garden hedge for the acceptance of anybody who would have them;