’No, sir.  The more the better; for then they will have full occupation for their claws without me.’

‘Ah, my dear,’ said Mr. Falkirk, ’don’t you know that the cat gets within springing distance before the claws are shown?’

’Yes, sir; but you are presupposing a stationary mouse.  Pray, how many fierce, soft-pawed, sharp-clawed monsters preside over your ideas at present?’

‘Six or seven,’ said Mr. Falkirk with the utmost gravity.  ‘Fortune has come upon you suddenly, Wych.’

It was very pretty, the way she laughed and flushed.

’They are not all troubled with whiskers, sir—­my kind medical friend, for instance.’

‘You think so!  Pray, in your judgment, what is he, then?’

’Not a cat, sir, and yet no lion.  Mr. Rollo calls him a “specimen.” ’

‘Of what?’ (dryly enough.)

’I rebuked him for the expression, sir, but did not inquire its meaning.’

’Do you suppose that the English traveller, Mr. Shenstone, will come to Chickaree this Summer for the purpose of inspecting the Morton manufactories?’

’Let us ’ope not, sir.  Mr. Morton will, for his home is just there.  He told me so.’

’And young Nightingale has it in his mind to spend a good deal of the Summer at his aunt’s, Mrs. Lasalle’s; for he told me so.  I saw him in town.’

’Mr. Falkirk, you are not a bit like yourself to-day.  Are all men cats, sir?’ (very gravely.)

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Falkirk, ’most men are, when they see a Chickaree mouse in their path!’

‘Poor little me!’ said Wych Hazel, laughing.  She was silent a minute, then went cheerfully on.  ’I know, Mr. Falkirk, I shall depend upon you!  We’re in a fairy tale, you remember, sir, and you must be the three dogs.’

’Will you trust me, Wych, when I take such a shape to your eyes?’

‘Do you remember?’ said she, not heeding.  ’The first one with eyes like saucers, looking—­so!  And the next with eyes like mill wheels—­so!  And the next, with eyes like the full moon!—­’ At which point Miss Hazel’s own eyes were worth looking at.

’You do not answer me, I observe.  Never mind.  A woman’s understanding, I have frequently observed, develops like a prophecy.’

The night in the mill was better, on the whole, than it promised.  No sound awoke Wych Hazel, till little messengers of light came stealing through every crack and knot hole of the mill, and a many-toed Dorking near by had six times proclaimed himself the first cock in creation, let the other be who he would!

To open her eyes was to be awake, with Wych Hazel; and softly she stepped along the floor and out on the dewy path to the lake side; and there stood splashing her hands in the water and the water over her face, with intense satisfaction.  The lake was perfectly still, disturbed only by the dip of a king-fisher or the spring of a trout.  She stood there musing over the last day and the last week, starting various profound questions, but not stopping to run them down,—­then went meandering back to the mill again.  On her way she came to a spot in the grass where there was a sprinkling of robin’s feathers.  Wych Hazel stopped short looking at them, smiling to herself, then suddenly stopped and chose out three or four; and went back with quick steps to the mill.