They had walked down to the Peckham mill after supper to get some supplies that Danny Peckham had promised to bring up from Nantic. Just as they came to the turn of the road there came a strange sound from the direction of the waterfall tent, deep, rich strains of music, almost as low pitched and thrilling as the sound of the water itself. Both girls stood stock still listening, until Helen whispered:
"It must be Mr. Ormond. He's playing on something, isn't he?"
"A 'cello, child," Kit said, drawing in a deep breath as though she could fairly inhale the sweetness of the music on the night air. "I haven't heard one since we left the Cove, and it's mother's favorite music. I wish I knew what he's playing. It sounds like Solveig's song from Peer Gynt, and I love that."
"Then, that's what he does." Helen's tone held a touch of admiring awe as she listened. "And we thought he might be anything from a counterfeiter to an escaped convict hiding away up here. Oh, Kit, why do you suppose he keeps away from every one?"
"Probably got a hidden sorrow," Kit answered. "Still he's got a terrible appetite. Mrs. Gorham says she doesn't see how he ever puts away the amount of food he does. He buys whole roast chickens and eats them all himself."
Just then the music ceased suddenly. The flap of the tent lifted towards the roadway, and Mr. Ormond sent a hail across the twilight gloom.
"Is that you, Shad?"
"No, sir, it's just us girls," answered Kit. "We're going down to the mill."
"Would you mind so very much, Miss Kit, asking if any one has telephoned a telegram up for me from the station? I am expecting one."
"There, you see," Helen said, dubiously, as they went on down the road. "We just get rid of one mystery, and he hands us another one to solve. Who on earth would he be getting a telegram from?"