And in the midst of this paradise Ernestine Cardwell dwelt secure. There
was literally not a soul to speak to besides the miller and his wife,
but this absence of human companionship had not begun to pall upon her.
She was completely and serenely happy.
She spent the greater part of her days wandering about the woods and
commons with a book tucked under her arm which she seldom opened. Now
and then she tried to sketch, but usually abandoned the attempt in a fit
of impatience. How could she hope to reproduce, even faintly, the
loveliness around her? It seemed presumption almost to try, and she
revelled in idleness instead. The singing of the birds had somehow got
into her heart. She could listen to that music for hours together.
Or else she would wander along the mill-stream with the roar of the
racing water behind her, and gather great handfuls of the wild flowers
that fringed its banks. These were usually her evening strolls, and she
loved none better.
Once, exploring around the mill, she entered a barn, and found there an
old caravan that once had been gaily painted and now stood in all the
shabbiness of departed glory. She had the curiosity to investigate its
interior, and found there a miniature bedroom neatly furnished.
"That's Mr. Rivington's," the miller's wife told her. "He will often run
down to fish in the summer, and then he likes it pulled out into the bit
of wood yonder by the water, and spends the night there.
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