"Never mind, Elsie," interrupted Mrs. Ormond; "we won't talk about it any more just now. There's nothing to be ashamed of in mistaking one sound for another, especially when you wake up in the middle of the night, and everything seems strange."
Elsie subsided, but she was far from satisfied, especially as Guy covertly pulled a face at her across the table. She ate her dinner in silence, and as soon as the meal was over left the room and went outside in a pet. As the tool-house had been uppermost in her mind lately, she naturally found her way there, and sat down on an old hamper to think. Though sensitive, she was a courageous child, and she did not like being made fun of, especially when the taunt implied that she had been frightened at nothing.
There before her stood the grindstone, looking exactly the same as it had always done. The girl rose, walked over to it, and put her foot on the treadle.
"Squeak! squeak!" Yes, that was exactly the noise she had heard in the night, coupled with the grate of the stone against the hard metal. She felt more than ever sure that she had not been mistaken.
At that moment the door opened, and Brian appeared. In his short blue knickers, and with the gaily coloured shirt showing beneath his coat, he looked what he was—a thoroughly manly boy. He and Elsie were always the best of good comrades, and the latter was always ready to tell Brian her troubles, feeling sure of a sympathetic hearing.
"Are my football boots out here?" he asked.
"Yes, they're over there. And, I say, Bri, I did hear the grindstone turning last night, and it's too bad of them to say I didn't."
"Well, if you did, you did," answered Brian consolingly. "There's no reason to fret yourself about such a trifle."
"But Guy tries to make out I was frightened at nothing, and I wasn't."
"Not you," grunted Brian, dragging on his boots. "You're a good plucked un, I know."