tradition nor antiquarian research could explain what the name meant, or
could tell when the name had been given. "We call it The Loke; they do
say no fish can live in it; and it dirties the clean salt water when it
runs into the sea." Such was the character of the river in the estimation
of the people who knew it best. But I was pleased to see The Loke again.
The ugly river, like the woodland glade, looked at me with the face of an
old friend.

On my right hand side rose the venerable timbers of the water-mill.

The wheel was motionless, at that time of night; and the whole structure
looked--as remembered objects will look, when we see them again after a
long interval--smaller than I had supposed it to be. Otherwise, I could
discover no change in the mill. But the wooden cottage attached to it had
felt the devastating march of time. A portion of the decrepit building
still stood revealed in its wretched old age; propped, partly by beams
which reached from the thatched roof to the ground, and partly by the
wall of a new cottage attached, presenting in yellow brick-work a hideous
modern contrast to all that was left of its ancient neighbor.

Had the miller whom I remembered, died; and were these changes the work
of his successor? I thought of asking the question, and tried the door:
it was fastened. The windows were all dark excepting one, which I
discovered in the upper storey, at the farther side of the new building.
Here, there was a dim light burning. It was impossible to disturb a
person, who, for all I knew to the contrary, might be going to bed. I
turned back to The Loke, proposing to extend my walk, by a mile or a
little more, to a village that I remembered on the bank of the river.

I had not advanced far, when the stillness around me was disturbed by an