“What’s your home, Renny?” she asked, by and by. 

 “A mill,” I answered, “but nothing is ground there now.” 

 She stopped and so did I, and she looked at me curiously, with her red lips parted, so that her teeth twinkled. 

 “What’s the matter?” said I. 

 “Nothing,” she said, “only I remember an old, old saying that the woman told me.” 

 “What woman?” I asked, in wonder, but she took no notice of my question, only repeated some queer doggerel that ran somewhat as follows: 

“Where the mill race is

Come and go faces.

Once deeds of violence;

Now dust and silence.

Thither thy destiny

Answer what speaks to thee.”

 CHAPTER III. THE MILL AND THE CHANGELING. 

THE MILL AND THE CHANGELING.

 The outer appearance of the old mill in which we lived and grew up I have touched upon; and now I take up my pen to paint in black and white the old, moldering interior of the shell. 

 The building stood upon a triple arch of red brick that spanned the stream, and extended from shore to shore, where, on each side, a house of later date stood cheek to jowl with it. It looked but an indifferent affair as viewed from the little bridge aforesaid, which was dedicated to St. Swithun of watery memory, but in reality extended further backward than one might have suspected. Moreover, to the east side a longish wing, with a ridged roof of tiles, ran off at right angles and added considerably to the general dimensions. To the west stood a covered yard, where once the mill wagons were packed or unloaded; but this, in all my memory of it, yawned only a dusty spave, given over to the 

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