he could see above the trees. It was nearly noon; everything was very still and peaceful; there might be a little threat of rain in some of those bigger clouds, but certainly nothing more than a passing shower. Why should he have such a feeling of vague uneasiness, of danger; a queer unrest as though he must get ready for something that was about to happen? Why should he feel such regret that the two men were getting farther and farther away? Why must he try hard to stifle the impulse to run after and call them back? He did not know.
He turned at last and went into the mill, and over to where the sailors had laid the old captain down. He remembered that wide bench under the little window; he and Sally had sat upon it, but certainly he did not recollect that it had been covered with a blanket. There were some papers lying on the dusty table too; he might have not seen them, but a puff of wind came through the broken windowpane and scattered them across the floor. He gathered them up, but found that nearly all were blank; only the three uppermost ones had any lines of writing. They were penned in an odd hand, very small and with innumer-
