Sylvia recklessly let go the old umbrella, which fell backward as she stood up in the rain and looked off, affectionately. The damp rings of hair blew about her forehead on the wind-swept height, and she reached out her arms toward the grand, forbidding prospect.
"You can't frighten me, dearest, dearest!" she said exultantly. "Rumble and roar as much as you like. I know what is behind the mask."
She sat down and righted the umbrella, and while the horses descended the hill she looked and looked, feasting her eyes on every well-remembered landmark.
The Tide Mill loomed out of the mist.
"Poor dear!" she said, apostrophizing it. "Are things just as desperate as ever?"
Tears were glistening on the closed shutters, and running down the weather-beaten sides.
"I think when the mill is crying like that, it always seems as if it were softening a little, Thinkright. Don't you? As if there were greater chance of its opening its eyes and taking notice once more."
Thinkright gave a low laugh. "Your miracle hasn't come to pass yet, has it?"
"No, but I'm going to hope, still."
"That's right. If those shutters ever open I think you'll have to be the prime mover. No one else seems to care."