The Laughing Mill and Other Stories

rds the mill-stream, where little Peter had during the last hour been quietly fishing. The sound of a quick scr

exion turning to a tawny sallow hue. "He can't swim; haste ye lower down, sir; I'

ing panting beside the rushing water, trying to select the best point from which to take my plunge. Just then I heard a swift rustling step behind me, and there was Agatha, her lovely face and eyes aglow with terrified excitement. Then

being fairly on the hook, and pulling hard, the little man had rather chosen to go in after it, rod and all, than save himself at the cost of losing it. His scream, however, had startled not only his father and myself but Agatha and his mother likewise; and the latter had followed her husb

the headlong rapids herself. As I caught her arm, I felt rather than saw her glance at me, as though measuring my ability to do what must be done. Apparently her decision was in my favour, for she stepped back; and an instant after I was staggering breast deep in the boiling stream, watching the swift but topsy-turvy onset of Master Peter. Dow

d weeping in the same breath, "look if the

stout little Kit North. There was the rod, still lightly gripped in his small

en the shouts that greeted the discovery had somewhat subs

e pool. So we all retraced our way to the house, the trout resting triumphantly in Peter's arms, who was himself carried by his father. Agatha and I walked side by side; neither spoke to the other, and I knew not what thoughts were in her mind; but for my own part I had never been more light of heart, and I regarded Peter and his trout as the b

added hastily, and with a light in her dark

are going to kiss ... Peter?" I dared to

ry swallowing of a gallon or two of water, were the extent of his injuries; while his blessings were beyond estimation. When I came downstairs half an hour later, after changing my clothes, I found him bund

e off to attend to something on the farm, and would as likely as not be absent till supper-time. It was a long time till then, and meanwhile I was without anything to amuse me. My mind was restless and excited, and I would ha

y the same as that which my great-grandmother had lost? and if so, would Agatha be likely to know anything about it? The next moment a vision of Scholar Gloam had risen before me. How had he come to die, and be buried beneath the Black Oak? and why was the old mill considered haunted? David-the handsome housekeeper's son-what had become of him? and, above all, what had been the fate of the little sea-nymph? Then the necklace once more-how came Agatha to attach such talismanic virtues to it? and was not her doing so evidence that she must know its ancient history? Again, was Agatha Poyntz's own daughter? and if so, who and what had been her mother? for she must be the child of a union prio

k growths of pine, birch, and oak. From beyond a clump of the latter, southward from where I stood, I thought I detected the noise of falling water; and glancing eastwards, I could trace the course of a stream which was itself unseen, by the hedge of stunted timber that fringed its banks. The aspect of the neighbourhood was wild and remote; it seemed to lie apart from men's ways; and certa

of oak trees, when I suddenly found myself gazing on