With his thoughts full of this purpose, he turned his horse’s head again toward home, but on his way he made a detour, taking a road which would lead him around by the old mill. He had not traversed this way since he was a boy, and had almost forgotten how the place looked, though he used to row upon the pond and play about the dilapidated wheel, which once had turned the mill, while he had followed the stream that fed it for miles, in search of the pretty speckled trout that lay hidden in their dark haunts beneath the tangled roots of the overhanging trees. The day was excessively warm, but the trees with their luxuriant foliage made a perfect arch above his head, and afforded a delightful shade, through which the sunlight only came in checkered gleams, making quaint shadows on the grass-grown path beneath. Hundreds of birds on every hand made the woods ring with their sweet melodies; myriads of flies buzzed lazily about; the beetles hummed among the bushes, and gayly painted butterflies fluttered among the many-hued flowers that grew by the wayside. Now and then a squirrel would spring out, chattering from some gnarled and moss-grown trunk, and dart across the path or along the zigzag Virginia fence on either hand, while occasionally a nut-brown partridge, startled from its covert, darted deeper into the forest, followed by its timid and clamorous mate. It was a perfect summer day, and remote from the busy haunts of men, with the tender blue of the sky above, and the waves of golden light, that streamed softly on him between the interlacing branches over his head, Everet thoroughly enjoyed his solitary ride, and the lazy, peaceful life of bird and insect all about him. By and by he heard the rushing of the brook that fed the pond farther on, and presently he came to the shallow ford where, as a boy, he had often played and sailed his miniature boats. He rode his horse into the middle of the stream, where he gave him the bridle, and let him drink his fill, while he absently watched the ripples and eddies which he made with every swallow. Then he passed on, and coming up on the opposite bank, he saw not far distant the smooth, glassy pond, and the old mill still standing on its margin. It was an ancient and dilapidated building, black from age and neglect, but picturesque withal, for it was almost covered with a luxuriant growth of glossy, dark-green woodbine, intermingled with the deadly nightshade, whose bright purple blossoms made spots of rich color here and there among the foliage. Passing this, he came to the miller’s house, which was also empty and falling to decay, while still farther on he came upon a small cottage fairly embowered in vines, and brilliant with great clusters of the scarlet trumpet-honeysuckle and purple wisteria.