Out from among the trees now, into the dim starlit glade; down the pine-strewn path, with the noise of falling water from out the beechwood at the right, and the ruined mill looming black before her.  Now came the three broken steps.  Yes, so far she had no need of the lantern.  Round the corner, stepping carefully over the half-buried mill-stone.  Groping her way, her hand touched the stone wall; but she drew it back hastily, so damp and cold the stones were.  Darker and darker here; she must light the lantern before she ventured down the long flight of steps.  The match spurted, and now the tiny yellow flame sprang up and shed a faint light on the immediate space around her.  It only made the outer darkness seem more intense.  But no matter, she could see two steps in front of her; and holding the lantern steadily before her, she stepped carefully down and down, until she stood on the firm greensward of the glen.  Ah! how different everything was now from its usual aspect.  The green and gold were turned into black upon black.  The laughing, dimpling, sun-kissed water was now a black, gloomy pool, beyond which the fall shimmered white like a water-spirit (Undine,—­or was it Kuehleborn, the malignant and vengeful sprite?).  The firs stood tall and gaunt, closing like a spectral guard about the ruined mill, and pointing their long, dark fingers in silent menace at the intruder upon their evening repose.  Hildegarde shivered again, and held her lantern tighter, remembering how Bubble had said that the glen was “a tormentin’ spooky place after dark.”  She looked fearfully about her as a low wind rustled the branches.  They bent towards her as if to clutch her; an angry whisper seemed to pass from one to the other; and an utterly unreasoning terror fell upon the girl.  She stood for a moment as if paralyzed with fear, when suddenly the little dog gave a sharp yelp, and leaped up on her impatiently.  The sound startled her into new terror; but in a moment the revulsion came, and she almost laughed aloud.  Here was she, a great girl, almost a woman, cowering and shivering, while a tiny puppy, who had hardly any brains at all, was eager to go on.  She patted the dog, and “taking herself by both ears,” as she expressed it afterwards, walked steadily forward, pushed aside the dense tangle of vines and bushes, and stooped down to enter the black hole which led into the vault of the mill.

A rush of cold air met her, and beat against her face like a black wing that brushed it.  It had a mouldy smell.  Holding up the lantern, Hildegarde crept as best she could through the narrow opening.  A gruesome place it was in which she found herself.  Grim enough by daylight, it was now doubly so; for the blackness seemed like something tangible, some shapeless monster which was gathering itself together, and shrinking back, inch by inch, as the little spark of light moved forward.  The gaunt beams, the jagged bits of iron, bent and twisted into fantastic shapes, stretched and thrust themselves from every side, and again the girl fancied them fleshless arms reaching out to clutch her.  But hark! was that a sound,—­a faint sound from the farthest and darkest corner, where the great wheel raised its toothed and broken round from the dismal pit?