THE MILL OF SILENCE BY B. E. J. CAPES. CHICAGO AND NEW YORK: RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY, MDCCCXCVII. [MISC/COPYRIGHT] A PRIZE STORY In The Chicago Record’s series of “Stories of Mystery.” THE MILL OF SILENCE BY B. E. J. CAPES, Author of “The Uttermost Farthing,” “The Haunted Tower,” etc. (This story--out of 816 competing--was awarded the second prize in The Chicago Record’s “$30,000 to Authors” competition.) Copyright, 1896, by B. E. J. Capes. CONTENTS. I. THE INMATES OF THE MILL. II. A NIXIE. III. THE MILL AND THE CHANGELING. IV. ZYP BEWITCHES. V. A TERRIBLE INTERVIEW. VI. THE NIGHT BEFORE. VII. THE POOL OF DEATH. VIII. THE WAKING. IX. THE FACE ON THE PILLOW. X. JASON SPEAKS. XI. CONVICT, BUT NOT SENTENCED. XII. THE DENUNCIATION. XIII. MY FRIEND THE CRIPPLE. XIV. I OBTAIN EMPLOYMENT. XV. SWEET, POOR DOLLY. XVI. A FATEFUL ACCIDENT. XVII. A TOUCHING REVELATION. XVIII. A VOICE FROM THE CROWD. XIX. A MENACE. XX. DUKE SPEAKS. XXI. THE CALM BEFORE. XXII. THE SHADOW OF THE STORM. XXIII. A LETTER AND AN ANSWER. XXIV. LOST. XXV. A LAST MESSAGE. XXVI. FROM THE DEPTHS. XXVII. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING. XXVIII. THE TABLES TURNED. XXIX. A SUDDEN DETERMINATION. XXX. I GO HOME. XXXI. ONE MYSTERY EXPLAINED. XXXII. OLD PEGGY. XXXIII. FACE TO FACE. XXXIV. I VISIT A GRAVE. XXXV. ONE SAD VISITOR. XXXVI. I GO TO LONDON. XXXVII. A FACE. XXXVIII. A NIGHT PURSUIT. XXXIX. A STRANGE VIGIL. XL. A STORY AND ITS SEQUEL. XLI. ACROSS THE WATER. XLII. JASON’S SECOND VISIT. XLIII. ANOTHER RESPITE. XLIV. THE SECRET OF THE WHEEL. XLV. I MAKE A DESCENT. XLVI. CAUGHT. XLVII. SOME ONE COMES AND GOES. XLVIII. A FRUITLESS SEARCH. XLIX. A QUIET WARNING. L. STRICKEN DOWN. LI. A MEETING ON THE BRIDGE. LII. A WRITTEN WORD. LIII. AN ATTEMPT AND A FAILURE. LIV. A LAST CONFESSION. LV. A SHADOW FROM THE PAST. LVI. ALONE. LVII. A PROMISE. LVIII. THE “SPECTER HOUND.” LIX. INTO THE DEPTHS. LX. WHO KILLED MODRED? THE MILL OF SILENCE. Yesterday came a knock at the door--a faint, tentative knock as from childish knuckles--and I went to see who it was. A queer little figure stood outside in the twilight--a dainty compendium of skirt and cape and frothy white frills--and a small elfish face looked up into mine through shimmering of hair, like love in a mist. “If you please,” she said, “Zyp’s dead and will you take care of poor Zyp’s child?” Then at that moment the hard agony of my life broke its walls in a blessed convulsion of weeping, and I caught the little wanderer to my heart and carried her within doors. “And so poor Zyp is dead?” said I. “Yes,” answered the elfin; “and, please, will you give me back to her some day?” “Before God’s throne,” I whispered, “I will deliver up my trust; and that in such wise that from His mercy some little of the light of love may, perhaps, shine upon me also.” That night I put my signature to the last page of the narrative here unfolded.