DOROTHY OF THE MILL

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXXVI, Issue 23, 9 June 1906, Page 11

DOROTHY OF THE MILL

Robert Barr in “ The Idler "

a PAINTING of, Elmad-dl Miß might truthfully have bee* labelled “Peace." It occupied a romantie situation near the head of the valley. Above it lay the large mill-pond, or small lake, just a* you choose to call it, placid in the moonlight, its margin, however, shaded by drooping trees, whose branches bent to drink, as it seemed, of the Hear, still water. The pond was needed as a reservoir of power, for the mill was far up that valley, and the stream at this height was smalt Lower down, where the rivulet became a river, there were mills in plenty that had no pond, and needed nothing more than a narrow channel cut to feed their small wheels. But Elmsdeli Mill, to make the most of what water it had, possessed a wheel of great diameter, that the leverage of its spokes might make the most of the liquid force at its command. The stone mill itself was overgrown with ivy, and overshadowed by tall elms, and coming from the north, one would not suspect its existence, were it not for that mirror of a pond, which seemed framed with a green girdle. But the southern end of the mill was bare white stone in its lower story, overtopped by timber and plaster in the gable, and was a landmark for miles to any traveller coming up the winding road by the stream, he seeing the mill with its fringe of trees topping the upper valley. It was a scene emblematic of the sweetest peace, yet was far from being typical of the state of affairs in England, for that grim fighter. Cromwell, himself, was camped but half *u hour's ride away down this vale of seeming content. resting from his latest battle, where he had put to flight those who scorned him, scattering them like chaff before the wind, and Dorothy, as with her she nibbed the white dust from the semi-obscured end window of mill, saw a mounted man and a down foot soldiers hurrying up the road towards the mill. Dorothy was discontented with Cromwell, and thought him a most unreasonable man. yet had she cause for congratulation if she had only paused to think. Only the day before had a great fear been lifted from herself and her mother. News of a fierce battle had come to them, and after .Ahat. silence and racking anxiety, for her father and her two stalwart brothers were alt three among Cromwell’s forces. News of the conflict had been carried to that secluded vale by men who brought cartloads of wheat which were weighed into the mill, each man accepting a statement on paper of the weight of his load, written by the miller’s wife. The? incursion of grant was entirely unexpected by the two wome° in the cottage on the opposite Side of : the road to the mill, and all the bringers could say, was that- they had been ordered by the oflk'jrs of the I’ar- ... : Immentary army To deliver*what’ wheat ’ they bad io Elmsdeli Mill. . .One. wise yeoman said..he _ thought. it was because - • the mill stood -a»£>eetaded,.tbus. less.l»kely to - fa!L into The’ ’ hands"bf"the"Royal . -• ists. noted- throughout—the--land-aa~be-ing scandalously ignorant of-their own country, while every inch of the shire was known to the Cromwellian soldiers, and in this surmise the old yeoman was doubtless right. These men said a ter- • rible battle had been fought, but what the outcome was not one of them knew. Thejr duty was to bring wheat to the mill, and they were inclined to suppose that the less they interfered in the affaire of the mighty, the better for them, for no man yet knew how the cat was to jump, although all admitted Cromwell seemed to be having the best of it.

The- first tidings that all was well ■ with their own folk came by mounted i£ messenger up the valley, hurrying hia horse so that the women, seeing him j had their worst moment ere he 41 spoke, their tremor of fear augmented fl rather than assuaged by seeing on near-s *■< approaCh thart 1 the "speeding messengerwas a neighbour’s son. Standfast Stand- ** l»R name; and yet .in spite ?f this •uspeilse Dorothy's fair cheeks ootourafi*

and her eyes were downcast as young Standish sprang from his horse. “What lias befallen? What has befallen?” cried the miller’s wife. “The Lord has given us a great victory,” said Standish solemnly. * and has crushed the ungodly.” “Yes, yes,” cried the woman, “but what about my man and my two sons?” “They are well.” said Standish, "untouched. though they were in the thick of it.” “Thank God, thank God,” repeated the wife two or three times, and then Dorothy looked up. saying with something almost of reproach in her tones—- “ Why, then, did you ride so fast? You frightened us.” “I ride. Doll, under orders that are not to be slighted. When Cromwell himself gives the word. horseflesh c« manflesh must not be spared. His orders are to grind, grind, grind, and turn the corn into meal: the army must he fed.” ‘“How are we to grind?” demanded the girl, “when he has taken our millers from us?” “There lies the water: there stands the mill. Is there no corn?” asked the young man. “Com enough; the mill is full of it,” replied the girl. ‘■Then Cromwell says ‘Grind.’ ” “Does he expect me to do it?” she asked. ‘He cares not who does it, so ’I is done. That is Cromwell's way.” replied the lad. “You will eat here before going farther?” interrupted Mistress Mitford. “I go no farther.” said the lad. “Surely you go-dfirTo-ycSfr'oWrt home. - if but to let them see you are safe and sound?” protested the miller’s wife. “I have no such leave.” replied Standish, “and must return at once; indeed. I scarce dare spare time to eat. but if you have a mug of ale ” “Tut. tut.”. cried the good woman, “come in. There is ale in plenty, and a meat pie on the tbale such as you do not get in the army. Dorothy will hold- your horse till you come out again.” "Indeed.” said the young man. archly. “I shall put her to no such task, but shall tie the horse’s bridle to this ring in the wall, so that Dorothy may accompany us within”: and he east a meaning glance from under his steel cap at the girl, who tossed, her head indifferently. “You need not so trouble yourself. Mr Standish.” she said; “I make nothing of holding a horse, even for so long a time as you take to a meal.” The young man made no reply to this flippant remark, hut securely tied the leather strap to the iron ring, then " turning-to her. the-mother having dfe- • appeared within the cottage, he said earnestly— . - ' “Doll, my time is short. but hope it will be long enough for the small '. - w : ord ‘yes.’" “Indeed,” said she. “ ’tis the longest •• word in the language for what it entails. Become a general. Standfast, and I’ll say yes right speedily. You know how ambitious I am. yet imprisoned here in this dull valley, with . nothing happening.” “You do not value your good fortune," said the young man. solemnly. “Things happen elsewhere that are ill to look upon. Thank God for the quiet of the valley.” “I do,” said the girl, instantly, falling into his own mood of seriousness, “I do.whenever I think of what yond.” “Then, Doll dear, will you not makA the day brighter for one who has to go beyond, by saying the word I fcsk of you?” and with a Munisy attempt at lightness he added. “Something will happen at once in this quiejt valley if yoii <K>." thereupon- lie made an- attempt to encircle her waist with his arm, but she whisked away from him. “The word ‘ho,’ ” she? said/ “is even

shorter than the one you mentioned. If you wish for brevity why not accept that ?” Before he could reply Mistress Mitford appeared at the door. “I thought you were hurried.” she said. “Your meat and malt are waiting for you.” “You will come in with met” he whispered, pleading to the girl, who with flushed cheeks kept the distance more than arm’s length between them. "Yes. I shall come,” she poutej, “I think I am safer by my mother’s side than by yours," and so the two entered the cottage, the valiant Standish attacking the pie with no less valour than he had displayed in battle a few days before. Mistress Mitford sat opposite him, and Dorothy some distance apart, the elder woman plying him with questions regarding the fight, which Standish answered with some reluctance, evidently wishing to forget it all. He had been a farmer before he was a fighter, and was not. yet hardened to slaughter. " Tis none so bad,” he said, “when the fight is on. and one’s blood is up, but afterwards, when the night falls and the groaning is heard while we search the battlefield, ’tis a doleful business, and. after all, whoever is right, and whoever in the wrong of it, ’tis sad to see Englishmen fight Englishmen. Frenchmen, now, were a different matter.” - "We are al! God’s creatures,” said -the woman, shaking her. head in .despondency. "Not. Frenchmen,”, protested young ' "rttanrtfaSt.TtndF-neither of the Two wo- ■" men was sure enough about it to contradict him. _ .-’if.— - After the meal the young man rode down the valley again, satisfied in body, if not in spirit. ■ And now the two women were confronted with the problem working the mill. “Grind,”’ commanded Cromwell. and he was not one to be disobeyed. It is likely that if the miller had not been blessed with two strong sons who acted as his assistants, wife and daughter might have understood better the machinery-of the mill, - but as it was they were at a loss how to proceed. If they turned on the water, they might wreck the machinery, and thus, although obeying in the letter, there would be disobeying in the spirit, with the problem of feeding the army thereby rendered more acute. After much labour they filled with grain the huge bin shaped like an inverted pyramid, through which the wheat flowed to the stones, and then they determined to send a messenger to .- camp and request-the--presence; of cither ' the /father-or one of the. two;sous. This . was done the-morning after, the visit of Standish, amt now Dorothy stood - by - the ' tlom oboeured window-. rubbing- - its panes with- her. apron, watching the ■” approaching cavalcade and wondering. if this were the expedition sent to her rescue. In that case Cromwell was slightly overdoing it: she had asked for one man, not for a doaen. As the procession came near, she ■ leeoguised her father among the foot ■' soldiers. A miller-never distinguishes himself on horseback, so okl Mitfprd trailed a pike instead of being one of Cromwell’s mounted Ironsides. A cavalryman took his stand in the middle of the rood, while the foot soldiers rapidly surrounded the mill. The upper half of the door was open. Mit'ford, followed by two or three' niiV, qn- ; fiistened the lower leaf and'entecejl, his “ daughter coming f of warfl to ntfeet Thein. l "Why is the mill not working, Dorothy?” he asked, anxiousiv. “Didn't you get the General’** eomn*ind?” “Mother and I" wAe ’iff raid to let on the water, fearing we might, destroy 'the mill, instead'of making toed 1.7-i “Tut. tut,” cried the old man, impatiently, “the mill would come to no harm. PH show you wbat to do.fvhou

we have finished our business. Hara you seen any loiterers about?" “No."

"None in cavalier dress?" “Not one." » “laird Dorincourt was taken prisoner, and has escaped. He is thought to have come up the valley, and may be concealed in the mill. Come, my lads. I know every nook and eranny where even a rat might hide. If his lordship is here, we’ll soon have him out." The old building was searched from raftered attics to moss-covered cellars dripping with water, but no trace of the Royalist was found within its walls. “He is not here. I’ll vouch for that," reported the begrimed miller to the man on horseback. Everyone was then set at beating the bushes and thicket surrounding the pond, but this, too, was labour lost. Meanwhile the miller turned on the water; the great wheel slowly revolved and the flour came pouring out. “There’s nought to do but keep th* hopper full and work till the pond run* dry, which it will not do for some weeks yet,” said the father. 'lhen the man on horseback gathered his followers, and detracted fruitlessly down the hill again. Dorothy stood by the transparent pane and watched theta until they were finally shut out from her sight. With a sigh she turned from the window. and then was startled by hearing a half-smothered voice cry: “In the Fiend’s name. Madam, are they gone? If so. I beg of vou stop th* mill.” She knew not from whence the voice came, but instinctively she turned to the lever, shut off the water, and the roar of machinery ceased. “Who are you. and where arc you?" she demanded. For answer there were various sounds as of a man trying to clear his mouth so that he ought s|ieak_ Then twoJuuds appeared over the edge of the bin, whose load of wheat was still not perceptibly “ dmtiiHsheit- aitd b--tousled curling hair rose up between the Jjinds until a pair of sparkling eyes regprifgd her. ‘ “A thousand thanks, my lady, for stopping the grinding stones. A moment more I had been gone lietween them, ami the flower of iny youth pulverised into flour for the Parliamentarians; eurse them.” “You were in no danger.” said the girl severely. “How came you here?” , “Arc you alone, my Ldy?” “Yes.” replied the girl, backing towards the door. “Let us thank God for that. Will you place me under further obligation by closing the door? Someone might pass, and really my apparel is in such a disarray that I have no anxiety to receive company.” “Yon are Lord Dorincourt.” she said accusingly, without moving to realise his request. “Oh, no. no, my fair girl,” replied the unseen mouth, while the visible eyes laughed. “I am in reality Oliver C’rom- ’ wejl,’ but . ,\m ’• so ashamed of Hie title that Only the duress in which I find myself, compels me to admit it.’\ . “You. are . Lcjrd - Pqrineourt,”-she repeated. with conviction. : , ; “I.was - once, my Tady. but not now, not now. *1 assure you 1 am a changed man, and I defy my dearest friend to recognise me. My doublet is as full of eprn as ever were the tightest boots of : the most bunion-footed Puritan that ever stepped.” ? ' “How dare you s[>eak with levity, considering your danger?” “Madam, you have just informed in* that 1 am safe from the millstones.” ? “Yea, but not from the upper and nether millstones of the law." “Dorothy. I am in no trouble from that source. To reach the hands of the ■ rebels 1 iiinst Jirst Axitrayed, and there is eyes to send even so worthless a fellowcreature as I to his death. In those charming and beautiful eyes I reaa, alas, disapproval of myself, but I see there is no capital sentence. Maderaofselle 1 torotfiy;”.: S £ He had now raised himself up the slanting boards until his headnnd shoulders were above ike -rim of th*

bin. His doublet was tine, though sadly torn, but a tatter of throat gear remained to him, and his neck was Scratched as if with brambles. His left arm he used with evident difficulty, and she saw the doublet eut away at the shoulder, and stained red as if from a wound but recently received. Her eyes moistened at this knowledge of his pitiable condition, so jauntily carried off, as if it were, upon the whole, a huge joke. "How do you know my name is Dorothy?” she asked with less of accusation in her voice than had hitherto been the case. "I heard your father call you so. ’Tis a lovely name, and lovingly 1 dwell on it,” then seeing in her eyes a return of that disapproval which he had formerly noted. “1 have a sister Dorothy, and an anxious girl she is this day, I warrant you. though her brother may have a jest on his. parched lips, while mouth and throat are like the great desert with chaff ami dust of the corn. Thus I venture to call you the Lady Dorothy, and again implore you to close that gaping door.” “No one passes this way,” she said. “Your pardon, Lady Dorothy, but those who have just gone may return, {surely you are not afraid of a wounded man?” “Me Puritans,” she said proudly, “have no reason to fear; we can defend ourselves.” “Egad, Madam, and you speak truth,” cried his lordship, laughing, "1 can testify to that. I wish I had your courage. I htar the door opening upon the highway.” Without another word she went to the. door and closed it. He made an attempt to throw a leg over the rim of his prison, but the exertion was too much for him, and he fell back groaning, bis face going white like the flour that powdered the walls. “Be not in such haste,” she said, and taking a small step-ladder she set it up against the bin, mounted lightly, and held out her hand to him. He smiled wanly up at her, and with her help w-as goon down upon the floor of the mill. “Would yon care for a mug of ale?” she asked him. “Ale? Is there such a blessing in this ill-fated land? Has not that damned brewer—l humbly beg your pardon, Madam, I'm a wicked man and forgot myself—but that brewer Cromwell has driven ale and every other good thing out of the country he encumbers, thus ruining his own trade, eurse him. Ale, did you say? It seems incredible. But angels may work miracles, therefore 1 shall believe, that ale exists. And, Dorothy, a crust of bread for a starving dog! The girl, her compassion touched, fled to the house. The coast- was dear, for her mother had walked down the valley with her father. When she returned he seized the tankard with an almost wolfish glitter in his eyes, and brought it near to bis eracked lips. Then he thrust it from him and held it-aloft, while his left hand removed the tattered hat, his wounded arm with difficulty obeying his will. "The King! God bless him! he cried. "Mv lord, you dishonour hospitality,” Baid Dorothy sternly. “1 brought you the drink for no such toast. ’ He consumed half of what, was in the tankard, before he set it down and replied, this time with more soberness than he had hitherto evinced—- " The texts are not all on your side, my I sidy Dorothy. ‘Fear God and honour the‘King,’ says the good Book. The hospitality of no household in England is dishonoured when I obey the Bible, and pray God to bless the English King. Unfortunate m»n! Would that my prayer were as jmtent for him as this good ale is for me.” The voting man was seated on the lowest step of the ladder which still leaned amiinst the bin of the hopper. His first thought bad been to his thirst, and so he had taken a long drink from the generous flagon. Now, as he set it down on the stone floor, he remembered his supplication for a crust of bread when he saw on the hrond trencher a heaping-up of meat pasty. He reached the trencher to his knees, and placed it there, then looked up at Dorothy with a smile, halt whimsical, ami wholly winning. She stood between him and the closed door, the light from the southern window enveloping her in luminous relief against the dark background of the wall. Her fair face was shadowed with perplexity, ns she looked down on the young num smiling up at her. who. starving as lie wns. left for the moment, his appetising dish untouched. He guessed her thoughts, and rend his fate in those glorious. sombre eyes. She was a true daughter of that vigorous race which had

crumpled up the aristocracy of England as if it had lieen flimsy tinsel, which the young man began to suspect it really was. He saw that the girl pitied him as a hunted wanderer, but would nevertheless deliver him to his enemies as a traitor to his country. He knew that threats or persuasion would alike lie useless, while wounded and exhausted he could not overcome her by physical force and thus accomplish his escape. Not even quiescence on her part would ensure his safety. He must cross the marshy moor alwve the mill from which this stream took its source, and that journey were impossible unless he had a guide who knew the way. On the other side of the desolate moor, he was a free man once more. So he looked up at her smiling. and she looked down on hial >, iU» deep melancholy. There was something in his glance and smile that filled her with vague uneasiness; she, the country maiden, he, the man of the world. Her eyes, dear and unpolluted as the crystal stream that turned the wheel; his, shadowed by the reflection of the city in fouler waters far below. She shivered a little, not relishing bis scrutiny, and said, with impatience—- “ Sir, why do you not eat?” “Dorothy, I dare not, until the problem in your mind is solved.” “There is no problem,” she said shortly.

‘ “Ah, yes. my lady, there is. Duty says harshly. ‘Give him up to his foes;’ humanity whispers, -Mercy blesses her that gives and him that takes.’ ” "1 shall do my duty,” she said, drawing a long, quivering breath. “Then, congratulations. Madam. The conflict is ended, and I shall not so wrong vour gentle soul as to pretend that the victory has been welcome to you. Take away the trencher.” Tlie young man leaned baek wearily against' the rounds of the ladder. His eyes closed, and his face went to a chalky whiteness. The* girl with a gasp of sympathy took a step nearer to him. “Surely you will eat?” "Take it away; its very aroma is maddening to me. I have had nothing to eat for three days, save a mouthful of throatparehing corn while buried in this bin.” “Then why do you refuse now when plenty is offered you? Me do not starve our prisoners.” The young man sat up again, and was so inconsistent as to offer himself momentary refreshment from the lips of the flagon. ‘ The brief draught seemed to revive him.

"My Lady Dorothy, I am no prisoner of yours, nor are you authorised to hold me, I surrendered to your compassion, not to vour vengeance. It is because ot vou I dare not eat. Mere 1 in the tent of the most barbarous Arab that rides the desert, and did I break but a crust of bread with him, my life were sacred in his hands; ves. to be defended from peril even at risk of bis own. Shall a Chr.stian maiden in a civilised land be lowei in the human scale than a heathen savage’ Christ forbid! whose words, Neither do 1 condemn thee/’ should ring in every woman's ears.” . “ Eat. I beg of you,” said Dorothy, ■with n sob. . . “As a prisoner?” he asked, looking searchingly at her. . "No. no', as a hungry man. Finish vour flagon, and I will refill it. Bv the time she bad returned with the brimming flagon, the pasty had wellni"h disappeared. All his old jauntiness had returned to the tattered noble. “ 1 swear to you, Dorothy, war is a stern schoolmaster. I understand now what I never could fathom before, why Esau sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. Yesterday I lay prone in a thicket of mv own plantation. It was a foolish place to hide, for they said, ‘He will make up the valley to his own estate.’ and as I lay there with the Roundheads beating the bushes within twenty paces of me. the thought came to me. ‘ This land in which my face is buried is my birthright, and gladly would 1 sell it for a mess of pottage.’ ” M’hen the repast was finished Dorothy took trencher and tankard to the house, and on her return the young man bolted the upper half of the mill door, which at the same time automatically sealed the lower half.

“I distrust this door.” he said, seeing the girl seemed slightly alarmed at his action. “When it is open any chance passer by may enter, and then it is too late to' hide. Now he must knock."

“There are no chance passers-by in this lonely district,” said the girl. “Then there are those who come by design, and they are still more dangerous.” y—

/The young man had acarcely finished Bin sentence when the reality of his apprehension was made audible to them. There was a clatter of iron-shod boots on the hard road.

“A troop of horse!” he whispered, •nd, seeing ail colour leave her face, Ke added, as if she were the one in danger, * They are like to pass on, I think.” The first part of the sentence was as corre t as the lust part was inaccurate. A strenuous voice .g out; a voice the girl had never heard before, but wuich thrilled her. with instant fear. “Halt! Dismount, and surround the mill.”

“By God, Cromwell himself!” cried the young man, his r’Jtlit hand instinctively reaching his swordless hip. “Cromwell here, ami I weaponless,” he added bitterly, as his einptv right hand swung round to Lis side again. “Would I had » thousand lives to exchange for his pestilent existence! But to be trapped like a rat!” “Come this way.” said Dorothy, as she raised a trap-door, “ hurry, hurry-.” The young man followed her. down jnto the dark and the damp, stumbling awkwardly. She, however, knew her road, and threw open a door in the outer wall tlu-t allowed some' light to filter into the gloom. Outside was the dim skeleton of the great wheel.

“ Step in here,” she said breathlessly, “ if the water is turned on you will have to walk for your life.” She bolted the door upon him, and was on the upper floor an instant after, closing down the trap-door. “Open!” cried a voice from the out•id-, while si sabre-hilt smote three blows against the l imber. Dorothy instantly pulled back the bolt, and threw open the two leaves of the door. It needed no introducer to identify for her the scowling man in Bteel breast-plate who stood before her. “ Who are you?” was his demand. “Dorothy Mitford, sir, daughter of the miller.” “ Why is the mill silent when I ordered it to grind ?” “It has been stopped but a short ten minutes since, sir. It was grinding all morning.” “Why was it stopped ten minutes since?” “ It. is the dinner hour, sir.” “ As I came up I saw you fly back and forth between the cottage and the mill. What were you doing?” Pear had given place to anger at this rude questioning, so abrupt and discourteous. and this before all these men standing behind him, among whom, with heightened colour, she recognised Standfast Standish. “ Sir,” she said, “ I must be fed as well as your army.” A grim smile flickered for an instant round those masterful lips, then disappeared as quickly- as it came. He made no comment upon her pertness, but turned to one of the men and said: - “ Go into the cott age, and see if two have Mined there. Have-you seen any strangers about?” asked Cromwell as before. “ tn the morning there was a dozen, searching the mill. The only one among them that I knew was my father.” “ You saw no one else?” “ 1 have not been out of the mill, sir, except to prepare food. I have been grinding all morning, and no one has entered these doors except myself.” “ What is that ladder doing standing against the hopper?” “ I have been tilling the hopper with corn.” At this juncture the man returned from the cottage. “There is one empty trencher, sir, from which one person has fed.” . Cromwell strode into the mill, and up the steps of the ladder, thrusting his sword half a dozen times down through the grain. Lucky- for Lord Dorincourt that he was elsewhere. Satisfying himself that nothing but wheat was within the bin. the General-descended, easting a suspicious glance at the girl, and said: “ We have traced him here. I am certain he is within these walls.” “ 1 am certain he is not, sir,” replied Dorothy, with all the assurance of exact truth. “My father knows every cranny of this mill, and he searched thoroughly.” “ Humph,” growled Cromwell, “ liegin the grinding again,, and if he is among the machinery, let him take peril of it. Your reason for the. stopping of .the mill ■ecms •scant enough.” The girl walked promptly and proudly to the lever, drew it towards her, and

instantly the low rumble of machinery began. She paid no further attention to her visitors, but went calmly to the scupper out of which poured the warm meal, and fingered its flow critically. Cromwell's eyes never left her, and again the slight smile chased the darkness from his countenance as he saw the testing of the meal, an action well Known to him, for he was a miller himself, but was now about to be discomfited, for he lived in a flat country where the water-wheels are small, and it never occurred to him that a water-wheel might act as a prison for a man.

The Genera! set his men at the second search of the mill, and this time the scrutiny was thorough enough to satisfy anyone. He himself went outside, and mounted his horse, awaiting stolidly the result of the investigation. Relieved from the eye of the master, •Standfast Mtandish ehose the lower portion of the mill as his ground for search, that perhaps he might exchange a word with Dorothy. . She received his greetings coldly enough, and seemed still offended at the treatment the General had accorded her. Standfast himself, although he feared and admired his chief, was indignant that her word should not have been instantly taken, and he said this emphatically to Dorothy, which won him a kindlier look than he had yet. obtained from her; then, seeking further ground of advantage, he said with enthusiasm: “ I know a place none of them have searched—the water-wheel. I”' go down the trap-door and look to that myself.” The indifference fell away from the girl like a cloak flung off. “ You will not,” she said. “ Why not? He might be there.” “He couid not be there unless I led him to the wheel. There would bo onlyone chance in a thousand for him to happen on the trap-door.” “ But,” objected the stubborn youth, “a trap-door is exactly what an escaped prisoner would look for.” “ Even if he found it,” she urged, “ he would descend into darkness, and be little likely to find the door to the wheel.” “Still, it is possible.” he persisted, “and there is no harm in looking.” “ There is the harm that I forbid you.” “ Why ?” “ Are you General Cromwell that you should question me thus?” she asked, with rising anger, her eyes ablaze. The young fellow gazed at her in astonishment, which gradually changed to an expression somewhat approaching distrust. “ General Cromwell,” he said slowly, “ seems to be much more far-seeing than I am. I am determined to search the ■wheel.” “ Very well,” she answered decisively, “do so, and take the penalty.” “What is the penalty?” “That you never speak to me again as long as you live. Twi ■ not have my word doubted by two men in the same day. though one is the highest and the other the lowest in the army.” With that she turned from him, and once more placed her trembling hand in the flow of meal. Out of the corner of her eye, however, she saw that her lover made no move to put his resolve into execution. The men came down from the upper part of the mill, and reported the fruitlessness of their quest. A bugle-call rang out. and those who surrounded the mill came hurrying to the .road. “Tell the girl to come here.” said Cromwell. When she stood before him he went on: “Are you alone in this mill?” _ “ No, sir, my mother is with me, although absent at this moment.” “ Have you a brother?” “ Two of them, sir.” “Where are they?” “ In General Cromwell’s army.” The General looked around him. “ Is any man here a miller?” he asked. There was no response, until young Standish stepped forth. “ I am a miller.” he said, a deep frown on his brow. The girl opened her mouth to contradict him. but closed it without speaking.

“You will remain here,” said Cromwell; “the mill must run night and day until every saek of corn within it is ground. The winnin will look after it in the daytime, and you at night.” Cromwell wheeled his horse towards -Hie south, his men falling in. two and two, behind him. The girl, without a ward, re-entered the mill, Standish fol-

lowing. She went to the window, looking again through the fame that again needed dusting, watching the cavalcade now trotting smartly down the valley. “Well, Dorothy,” said the young man. "how much longer are you going to keep Lord Dorineourt in the wheel?” “Until Cromwell and his men are entirely out of sight,” she replied, firmly, without turning round. “Who led him to the wheel?” “I did, the moment I heard the clatter of the horse. You said yesterday it was a pity Englishmen should kill Englishmen, therefore I attempted to save one man.” “Oh, his life has never been in danger; we do not kill our prisoners.” “'.‘i-ry well, then, stop the mill and take him out. He is unarmed and wounded, so his capture will be safe enough, Take him out with you to the camp.” “Dorothy, you heard me say I was a miller.” “Yes, and I knew it was not true.” “I am willing to learn from you. Dorothy; but that is not the point. i am here by the General's orders as miller, not as soldier.” “What difference does that make?” “The difference that if you are interested in Lord Dorincourt’s life, or, rather, his liberty, I do not violate my oath as a soldier by leading him to safety across the moor.” The girl whirled round. “Will you do that?” she cried. “Yes, if you bid me.” “He is a poor, forlorn creature," she said, “even if he is a lord. Stop the mill. Standish, and I will release him.” She raised the trap-door, and descended. while he pushed in the lever ami throttled the mill. It was indeed a forlorn object that appeared out of the darkness of the trap-door, a man drenched and dripping, but laughing nevertheless, though somewhat ly“I declare, Dorothy.” he. cried, as be eame blinking into the daylight, “1 shall never forget you, and I swear that you will never forget so comical a wretch as I. AU I need now is an oven. First 1 was powdered with (lour, •then plastered with water, and thus the dough about me calls but for the lutking, and 1 am a walking loaf.’ “This voting man,” said Dorothy, somewhat breathlessly, “will lead you across the moor in safety.” “Egad.” cried Lord Dorincourt, glancing without enthusiasm at Standish, “his uniform whispers that he is more likely to take me into Cromwell’s camp.” Standish's fist had clenched angrily as lie noted the familiarity with which the young lord spoke to Dorothy, and his lips dosed into a firm line. “I will answer for him, my lord,” she said, “because he who risks his liberty in your service is my promised husband.” The dripping lord made his most profound bow.

“Young man. I congratulate you. Yon adore the Queen, even though you fight against the King.” But Standish heard him not; his face was aglow as he gazed at the blushing Do rot by.