"Picturesque old affair, isn't it?" returned Dunham. "You were speaking a few minutes ago of sketching. That's a good subject."
The girl nodded, and her eyes rested on the mill pensively.
"Just as coldly heart-broken as ever," she said.
"What do you mean?"
She gave a slight gesture toward it. "Can't you see?"
Dunham gazed at the old building, standing above the inrushing tide.
"It does look rather forlorn, doesn't it," he returned, "with those blank shutters, tier upon tier."
"Yes, tear upon tear," answered Sylvia, with a faint smile at her own fancy. "One almost expects to see the salt drops raining down its face; but it is too tightly closed even for that. I was like that when I first came here, but Thinkright helped me, and I mustn't get so again, no matter what happens. I was very, very mistaken and unhappy in those days. You know I was."
The last words were uttered very low, and Dunham nodded.
"And now I've a longing, of course it's a silly one, that the Tide Mill should open its eyes too, and cheer up. I can't bear it to go on making a picture of the way I used to feel. It's as if it might drag me back again. To-day the feeling comes over me especially, because my heart is so heavy."