She paused, her lips apart, her eyes wide, for all at once she caught sight of the Tide Mill. Every one of its shutters had turned back. The sunlight was flooding in. She grew pale, sank down upon a rock near by, and gazed. While she was thus absorbed John Dunham came out of the woods and advanced to her. His step creaked the boards of the little dock, and she looked up. Springing to her feet, the color rushed back to her face.
"John, you here? The mill shutters have opened." She looked into his eyes appealingly, while he held both her hands.
"The mill? That's so," he answered. "Gives the old misanthrope a different look, doesn't it?"
"But when—how?" asked Sylvia. "Last night it was closed. I saw it; and the rainbow was inspiring it, and the setting sun was begging it, and I was coaxing it, and—look! When could it have happened? How could it have happened?"
"You expected a miracle, didn't you?" asked Dunham. "I remember you talked about it last summer."
"What are you doing here?" asked the girl, remembering he had her hands, and withdrawing them. "You couldn't have driven over from the village as early as this."
"No. I came up on business, and I'm staying in the neighborhood."
"But there isn't any neighborhood," said Sylvia.
"Is that all you know about this region?" he returned. "I'll show you where I'm staying, some day." John thought of his fragrant couch of hay in the barn. "Isn't it astonishing what a gay old boy that mill has turned into? Look at it sidle around on those posts. It seems to say, 'Come in. The water's fine.' Why don't we accept the invitation? Let's go over there."
"Oh, come. I can't wait. Here's the key to the boat-house."