“That reminds me—” said Mrs. Duwell; “there is a sawmill over at the bottom of that hill. Mr. Emerson told me about it. Some of his lumber came from there.”
“Then this road must lead to it,” said Mr. Duwell, pulling up at a cross-road that ran through the woods towards the hill.
“What does that sign-post say, Wallace?”
Wallace jumped out and examined the dingy sign, which was hardly readable.
“Sawmill Road; this is the right way!” he cried.
They had not driven far along the shady road when a peculiar, whistling sound met their ears.
“There’s the saw, now, I believe!” exclaimed Mrs. Duwell.
“So it is,” said Mr. Duwell. “Trot along, boy!” he urged the horse.
At a turn in the road they came upon the old sawmill, nestling at the foot of the hill. The smooth mill pond shone brightly in the sun. As the water fell over the dam, it tumbled into a noisy little brook which ran under a bridge and away down the valley. The refreshing odor of pine and cedar filled the air.