That little girl is watching it too; she has been standing on just the same spot at the edge of the water ever since I paused on the bridge.

And that queer white cur with the brown ear seems to be leaping and barking in ineffectual remonstrance with the wheel; perhaps he is jealous because his playfellow in the beaver bonnet is so rapt in its movement.

It is time the little playfellow went in, I think; and there is a very bright fire to tempt her: the red light shines out under the deepening gray of the sky.

It is time, too, for me to leave off resting my arms on the cold stone of this bridge....
Ah, my arms are really benumbed.

I have been pressing my elbows on the arms of my chair, and dreaming that I was standing on the bridge in front of Dorlcote Mill, as it looked one February afternoon many years ago.