“Put some talcum powder in next time,” urged Marie with a laugh.
They tramped on for some little time longer, gradually ascending from the level of the lake, until they turned from a dense patch of woodland into a little glade. Then the ruined mill confronted them.
“Oh, isn’t it lovely!” exclaimed Marie.
“A perfect dream,” declared Mabel.
“So romantic,” was Natalie’s opinion. “Oh, why did I leave my camera in the tent? I must have a picture of that!”
Truly it was a picturesque scene—a tumbled-down, old mill, the ancient wheel mossy-green with the growth of many years. The roof, in many places, had fallen into decay, and the flapping shutters, half-hanging on rusty hinges seemed like the closing eyelids of a very old man. The doors creaked dismally to and fro in the gentle wind, and the crumbling steps which had been worn by many tramping feet, were tumbling stone from stone.
“And this is the haunted mill?” asked Natalie.
“It is,” said Blake, simply. “A dark tragedy is hidden behind its crumbling walls.”
“What is it?” asked Marie eagerly.
“It is a fearsome tale, gentle ladies, a tale for the flickering camp fire rather than for the garish light of day, but such as it is it shall e’en be told unto you.”