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  he made a last attempt to divert us from the haven of our desire. He suggested that we both go in and have a look at the moon through the big telescope. As it was then broad and sunny daylight we treated this absurd project with contempt.

Down a steep winding hill, and we came upon the historic spot with delightful suddenness. Our heart was uplifted. There it was, unchanged, the old gray building standing among trees, with the clank and grind of the water-wheels, the yellow dapple of level sun upon the western wall.

But what was this? Under the porch-roof was a man bending over iron plates, surrounded by a dazzle of pale blue light. He was using an electric welder, and the groan of a dynamo sounded from the interior of the old mill. "It's probably a garage now," said the Soothsayer, "most of these old places are."

But that was the Soothsayer's last flash of cynicism, for in another moment the spell of the place had disarmed him. We approached, and it seemed to us there was something familiar in the face of the man operating the welder, as he watched his dazzling blue flame through a screen. It was Mr. Flounders, who has run the old mill for going on thirty years, and who used to preside at the cider press in days gone by, when we had many a pull at his noble juices. But he hasn't made any cider for several years he told us; the sawmill shed is unused, and the old mill itself is being fitted up