They reached the cottage, which looked as attractive as ever in its nest of flowers; but, as they approached, they saw no sign of the artist, and they were about to go up to the door when they heard a voice from one of the open bedroom windows, and both stopped short as the words struck their ears.
It was Mrs Drinkwater speaking, and her voice was half-choked with sobs, so that her words were indistinct. But Will caught this—
“Don’t, don’t say more. I have nothing to forgive you. It is enough for me that you are your own dear self again.”
The boys stole away on tiptoe, Will saying, huskily: “We can’t disturb them now. Let’s go and look at the broken dam.”
Josh stopped short to peer into his companion’s face.
“Can you stand it, Will?” he said.
The boy was silent for a few moments, and then, after making an effort to clear his voice—
“Yes,” he said, but very huskily. “Everybody has been saved, and I am going to try and bear it like—well, like a man.”
“Hooray!” cried Josh, softly. “But I say, what can have become of old Manners?” And then, with a hearty laugh, “I say! Oh, just look there!”
He pointed in the direction of a verdant shelf overlooking the clean-swept vale; and there, beneath his white umbrella, sat the object of their search, calmly smoking his big black briar pipe, contemplating the ruins of the dam and a small pile of stones, the only vestige of the vanished mill.