Even when you pass through a land of scant scenic attractions, you may often, by searching, discover unexpected and secluded beauty-spots, the charms of which, in a small way, are not readily outrivalled; but they need finding, for many lie unannounced though near the roadside. One day I was driving through an open country of flat fields and low bounding hedges, with only one little hill in all the prospect to break the level horizon of circling blue; a country not without its pleasantness, but tame and somewhat monotonous withal, though there was a fine fresh-air feeling about it, such as one finds on the far-reaching Fens. I was hungry, and so looking out for a likely spot in which to picnic, but it was some time before I could find one to my fancy; then it was not so retired as I could wish, and passing traffic robbed me of the privacy I desired. There were no grassy margins by the roadside to enjoy, and the fields did not look inviting. Having stopped the car I thought I heard the sound of falling water; it came from the direction of a little wood that had escaped my notice and to which a footpath went. Thereupon I determined to go exploring in the hope that I might find a secluded spot by some stream side for my midday halt and refreshment. The sound of running or falling water has always a fascination for me, it is as music to my ears, and who could be dull in the company of a gurgling or tumbling stream that almost seems to talk to you in the oldest language of the world?--"I chatter, chatter, as I flow," sings Tennyson of a brook. I was unexpectedly rewarded, for a few minutes' walk brought me to a little winding river that managed to conceal itself from the road, and by the river backed by trees stood an ancient water-mill with mossy roof and weather-stained walls, its great and somewhat broken, dripping, wooden wheel revolving round in so leisurely a fashion that its very movement suggested rest. The ancient mill, wood, and tumbling water, what a perfect picture they made! There on a grassy bank opposite I found an ideal place for my purpose, with the song of the mill-wheel, the swish and splash of the weir, the twittering of birds and the soothing cooing of pigeons to enliven that peace-bestowing solitude, a retired nook where one might "dream down hours to moments." Yet there was no hint from the roadway of mill or river, of anything else than a little wood. How much of quiet beauty that little wood conceals from the vulgar public gaze! How many of those who pass daily close by have discovered that charmed spot, I wonder? [Illustration: AN OLD MILL.]