"Well, he ought to know. We must wait."
He had not long to wait. A few days later, Will was himself again, for
the burden was off his mind. He had rested till he thought that his
father was well enough to hear what he had to say, and then, alone by
his bedside, he repeated almost word for word the confession Drinkwater
had made.
Mr Willows listened silently right to the end, and then, after a long
silence, he lay holding his son's hand clasped between his own.
"Horrible, indeed, my boy," he said, gently.
"Yes, horrible, indeed, father. What shall you do?"
There was another spell of silence before Mr Willows spoke again.
"Forgive, my boy," he said, "as I hope to be forgiven. What did he say
when he believed he was a dying man--that he was mad? Those must have
been the words of truth."
They were, for the time passed on, and as the new mill rose, James
Drinkwater was one of the busiest hands, restoring the place to its old
working state, a man completely changed, the most faithful worker about
the establishment.
"It is our joint secret, Will, my boy," said his father. "Let it rest."
And it has rested until now, when, long years after the Drinkwaters have
been laid to their rest, and Manners, the artist, has ceased to visit
the beautiful vale, the story of Will of the Mill is told.