'At twelve miles distance?' said he smiling.
'You are going to open a short cut. And even twelve miles, upon
Jeannie, is not much.'
Rollo rode a few yards in silence.
'She is your property, of course you know?'
'Thank you, Mr. Rollo!' Hazel said softly. She was smoothing out some locks of Jeannie's mane, which the wind and the run had tossed out of place.
'Take care!' said her companion. 'I shall not take thanks from you in that shape. Here is the Hollow. I am glad Charteris is at this end.'
The banks of the dell had risen up about them and the mill buildings began to appear. Paul Charteris' woollen mills came first, brown and dismal as such things are apt to look, surrounded with their straggling settlement of poor cottages. It was a glorious October day; fair over-head and glowing over all the earth; if atmosphere and colouring could have put a blessing upon misery the houses of Mill Hollow would have owned the blessing. But the clear golden light shewed the bare walls, the barren ground, the dingy, forlorn hopelessness of everything, in the full blank nakedness of the facts.
Slowly the riders walked their horses now, looking at it all. Slowly passed one mill after another with its straggling tenements for toil and discontent. Getting beyond these, and higher up the valley, new signs began to appear. Mills are mills indeed, and own no kindred with beauty. But along the slopes of the Hollow, behind and between the mill buildings, were tokens of life. Numbers of new cottages were risen, and rising, on the upper slopes of the banks, the new village even flowing over the crest of the hill upon the level land above. Most were of gray stone; some were frame houses painted white; each one that was finished having a space of ground enclosed within a little paling fence. You could see indications of change everywhere. Here some of the old huts were taking down, leaving room for new erections; there, certain old rubbish heaps had disappeared; the people they met seemed to wear a different air and to step more alertly. Further up the valley and close upon the roadway Hazel could see a building going up which was clearly no mill cottage; it was much too large. The cottages indeed were of different sizes, to suit different families and different tastes; this however was another affair. Low stone walls of considerably extent were getting a roof put on; the windows were large and many; yet it had hardly the look of a church. Builders and teamsters were at work over all this part of the valley.
The bright eyes had been very intent, the tokens of excitement in either cheek growing deeper and more defined; clearly, for Wych Hazel, Morton Hollow had changed names. But absorbed in her scrutiny she had given neither word nor look to anything but the Hollow.
Now she suddenly turned to her companion.