"What a restful place!" exclaimed Podge Byerly. "I almost wish I might be spirit of a mill, or better still, that old boat yonder basking in the pond-lilies and holding up its shadow!" "I am glad you like it," said Duff Salter. "Let us go in and see if the house is hospitable." As Podge Byerly walked up the worn stone walk of the lawn she saw a familiar image at the door--her mother. "You here, mother?" said Podge. "What is the meaning of it?" "This is my house, my darling. There is our friend who gave it to us. You will need to teach no more. The mill and a little farm surrounding us will make us independent." Podge turned to Duff Salter. "How kind of you!" she said. "Yet it frightens me the more. These surprises, tender as they are, excite me. Everything about you is mysterious. You are not even deaf as you were. What silly things you may have heard us say." "Dear girl," exclaimed Duff Salter, "nothing which I heard from your lips ever affected me except to love you. You cured me of years of suspicion, and I consented to hear again. The world grew candid to me; its sounds were melodious, its silence was sincere. It is you who are deaf. You cannot hear my heart." "I hear no other's, at least," said Podge. "Tell me the story of your strange deceit." They drew chairs upon the lawn. Podge took off her bonnet and looked very delicate as her color rose and faded alternately in the emotions of one wooed in earnest and uncertain of her fate. "I have not come by money without hard labor," said the hale and handsome man. "This gray beard is not the creation of many years. It is the fruit of anxiety, toil, and danger. My years are not double yours." "You have recovered at least one of your faculties since I knew you," said Podge slyly.