I parted from them at the door of the hotel, made my way down to Roscoe’s house at the ravine, and busied myself for the greater part of the day in writing letters, and reading on the coping. About sunset I called for Mrs. Falchion, and found her and Justine Caron ready and waiting. There was nothing eventful in our talk as we came down the mountain-side towards Viking--Justine Caron’s presence prevented that. It was dusk when we reached the valley. As yet the mills were all dark. The only lights visible were in the low houses lining the banks of the river. Against the mountainside there seemed to hang one bunch of flame like a star, large, red, and weird. It was a torch burning in front of Phil Boldrick’s hut. We made our way slowly to the mill, and found Mr. Devlin, Ruth, and Roscoe, with Ruth’s sister, and one or two other friends, expecting us.
“Well,” said Mr. Devlin heartily, “I have kept the show waiting for you. The house is all dark, but I guess you’ll see a transformation scene pretty quick. Come out,” he continued, “and let us get the front seats. They are all stalls here; nobody has a box except Boldrick, and it is up in the flies.”
“Mr. Devlin,” said Mrs. Falchion, “I purpose to see this show not only from the stalls, but from the box in the flies. Therefore, during the first act, I shall be here in front of the foot-lights. During the second act I shall be aloft like Tom Bowling--”
“In other words,” added Mrs. Falchion, “I am going to see the valley and hear your great horn blow from up there!” She pointed towards the star in front of Phil’s hut.
“All right,” said Mr. Devlin; “but you will excuse me if I say that I don’t particularly want anybody to see this performance from where Tom Bowling bides.”
We left the office and went out upon the platform, a little distance from the mill. Mr. Devlin gave a signal, touched a wire, and immediately it seemed as if the whole valley was alight. The mill itself was in a blaze of white. It was transfigured--a fairy palace, just as the mud barges in the Suez Canal had been transformed by the search-light of the ‘Fulvia’. For the moment, in the wonder of change from darkness to light, the valley became the picture of a dream. Every man was at his post in the mill, and in an instant work was going on as we had seen it in the morning. Then, all at once, there came a great roar, as it were, from the very heart of the mill--a deep diapason, dug out of the throat of the hills: the big whistle.