Dunham found a flight of steps in a corner, and climbed it, Sylvia following.
The ramshackle old building had platforms rather than floors, leaving space in the middle for the machinery which ran up through it, and stairs led from one to another of these. These steps looked newer than their surroundings. When the visitors had reached the next to the upper floor, Dunham led Sylvia to a window, and together they exclaimed upon the wide beauty of the great, open bay.
"Whoever owns this old mill owns a palace," said Sylvia. She placed her hand lovingly on the edge of a hoary shutter. "Didn't I tell you it was worth while to open your eyes, dear?"
She glanced at John, who was standing, tall and thoughtful, at the other side of the window, watching her. She smiled with rather unsteady lips. "You would laugh if you knew how much it means to me to be standing in here," she said.
"Not more to you than to me, I am sure," he returned. "I've never forgotten a fanciful thing you said about this mill last summer. You said that Love would open the shutters some day. Listen, Sylvia, do you hear that?"
Across the still water rang the woodland bells that preceded the triumphant flourish of the thrush's song.
"I should like that for my wedding music," said Dunham slowly, after a minute. "Those are the only bells that should chime upon my wedding if I had my wish."
Sylvia's heart beat fast. She thought it cruel of him to look at her like that.
He continued: "There is a spot over there in the woods near a thicket of white birches that I have selected as the spot for the ceremony."
"Very poetical," returned Sylvia. "Such a plan suits this outlook."