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Atlas of the Human Body
Central Nervous System and Vascularization

BRANISLAV VIDIĆ, DS
Professor, Texas Tech University Health
Science Center, Lubbock, TX,
United States

MILAN MILISAVLJEVIĆ, MD, DS, DSc

Professor, Institute of Anatomy,
University of Belgrade, Belgrade, Serbia

in collaboration with

ALEKSANDAR MALIKOVIĆ, MD, DSc

Professor, Institute of Anatomy,
University of Belgrade, Belgrade, Serbia
Academic Press is an imprint of Elsevier
125 London Wall, London EC2Y 5AS, United Kingdom
525 B Street, Suite 1800, San Diego, CA 92101-4495, United States
50 Hampshire Street, 5th Floor, Cambridge, MA 02139, United States
The Boulevard, Langford Lane, Kidlington, Oxford OX5 1GB, United Kingdom

Copyright © 2017 Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from
the publisher. Details on how to seek permission, further information about the Publisher’s permissions policies and our
arrangements with organizations such as the Copyright Clearance Center and the Copyright Licensing Agency, can be
found at our website: www.elsevier.com/permissions.

This book and the individual contributions contained in it are protected under copyright by the Publisher (other than as may
be noted herein).

Notices
Knowledge and best practice in this field are constantly changing. As new research and experience broaden our understanding,
changes in research methods, professional practices, or medical treatment may become necessary.

Practitioners and researchers must always rely on their own experience and knowledge in evaluating and using any
information, methods, compounds, or experiments described herein. In using such information or methods they should be
mindful of their own safety and the safety of others, including parties for whom they have a professional responsibility.

To the fullest extent of the law, neither the Publisher nor the authors, contributors, or editors, assume any liability for any
injury and/or damage to persons or property as a matter of products liability, negligence or otherwise, or from any use or
operation of any methods, products, instructions, or ideas contained in the material herein.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

A catalog record for this book is available from the Library of Congress

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-12-809410-5

For information on all Academic Press publications visit our website at

https://www.elsevier.com/books-and-journals

Publisher: Mica Haley

Acquisition Editor: Stacy Masucci
Editorial Project Manager: Sam Young
Production Project Manager: Edward Taylor
Designer: Matthew Limbert

Typeset by Thomson Digital

Contents

Preface vii

1. Upper Limb and Vascularization 7. Cranial Central Nervous System

and Spinal Cord 173
2. Lower Limb and Vascularization 25

8. Vascularization of Head and Neck

3. Thorax and Vascularization 55
and the Cranial Central
4. Abdomen and Vascularization 89 Nervous System 229

5. Pelvis and Perineum with

5-6-Month-Old Fetal Specimens 117 References 259

Index 261
6. Head and Neck Regions and
Vascularization 129

MaTep�an, 3aw.HllIeHHbllII 3BTopoauo! npaBOM

Preface

Anatomy is one of the oldest medical sciences that still continues today, and is the foundation for the study and practice of
the medical arts. It provides, first of all, the basic vocabulary of the medical world and the necessary skills required in solv-
ing health–disease problems in three-dimensional space. By sequentially dissecting a region, the anatomical analysis leads
to a gradually expanding appreciation of the entire makeup of the human body. This process is fundamental in providing
biophysical data for subsequent conceptual elaboration and integration of morphological data into a meaningful functional
complex. Dissection, considered the most ancient method of studying an anatomical subject, survived scrutiny and the test
of time throughout the history of medicine. However, it still remains a reliable method of scientific and pedagogical analysis
of fundamental human structure and function, which is important for minute differential assessment between normal and
abnormal conditions, as well as for the optimal treatment of abnormal (diseased) conditions.
Atlas of the Human Body, Central Nervous System and Vascularization has been written with several goals in mind.
The most important one was to establish a detailed coverage of anatomical structures/relationships throughout topographic
regions, as completely as it was technically possible. To avoid overcrowding of photographs by labels and to provide bet-
ter visibility of images, two, three, or even more similar regional views, in some instances, have been utilized. In addition
to adult specimens, a few prenatal examples were utilized to enable a better understanding of structure/relation specificity
of corporal differentiation (conduits, organs, somatic, and branchial derivatives) at various developmental intervals. An-
other quest of this Atlas was to systematically present arterial distribution, up to the precapillary level, using the “methyl
methacrylate injection and subsequent digestion of tissue” method. The resulting photographic presentation of the arte-
rial distribution throughout topographic regions, organs, and special subregions makes this Atlas a unique and invaluable
published document in the arsenal of the existing academic literature. The present Atlas, furthermore, contains a very rich
collection of: surface and three-dimensional dissection images, native and colored cross-sectional views made in different
plans (whenever appropriate these views were compared, side by side, with dissection images), and the distribution of blood
vessels throughout body regions and central nervous system. A separate segment of Atlas is devoted to the central nervous
system and its specific regions: brain, brainstem, cerebellum, and spinal cord. Each region is presented by a detailed col-
lection of surface (dissection) and cross-sectional views, native blood vessels, and blood vessel casts. The latter collection
could adequately subserve as a complete educational–visual aid for the requirements of a Neuroscience course.
Terminology used in the Atlas of the Human Body, Central Nervous System, and Vascularization is according to the
Terminologia Anatomica (1998).
Authors express their sincere gratitude to Stacy Masucci, Senior Acquisition Editor, Elsevier Inc. and Samuel Young,
Editorial Project Manager, Elsevier Inc. for unlimited assistance and help during the course of preparation of Atlas of the
Human Body, Central Nervous System and Vascularization. Administrative help and encouragement from the Faculty of
Medicine, University of Belgrade, Belgrade, Serbia, and Texas Tech University Health Science Center, Texas Tech Univer-
sity, Lubbock, Texas, USA are well appreciated.
We are also deeply grateful for essential scientific contributions by:
Dr. Mila Ćetković Milisavljević, from the Institute of Histology and Embryology, Faculty of Medicine, University of
Belgrade, Serbia, for her quality, beautiful drawings and histological specimens used in this Atlas.
Dr. Zdravko Vitošević, University Professor and 2011 year Laureate of the “Brothers Karic Foundation” in Belgrade,
Serbia, was wholly committed to this project and helped in the organization of scientific material throughout.
Dr. Bojan Štimec, from the Faculty of Medicine, Department of Cellular Physiology and Metabolism, Anatomy Sector,
University of Geneva, Geneva, Switzerland, who provided numerous helpful suggestions and assisted in updating the
lower limb and abdomen parts of our Atlas.

vii
Chapter 1

Upper Limb and Vascularization

FIGURE 1.1 Skeleton of the upper limb. (A) Posterior view of the right clavicle and scapula. (B) Bones of the shoulder region. (C) Right clavicle: (a)
superior and (b) inferior views.

Atlas of the Human Body

Copyright © 2017 Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. 1
2 Atlas of the Human Body

FIGURE 1.2 (A) Right scapula: (a) anterior and (b) posterior views. (B) Right humerus: (a) posterior and (b) anterior views. (C) Anterior view of the
shoulder joint.
 Upper Limb and Vascularization Chapter | 1 3

FIGURE 1.3 (A) Right forearm: (a) anterior and (b) posterior views of radius and ulna. (B) Elbow joint: anterior view (a) bones and (b) ligaments.
4 Atlas of the Human Body

FIGURE 1.4 Palmar surfaces of hand skeleton. (A) Bones of the hand. (B) Wrist joint.
 Upper Limb and Vascularization Chapter | 1 5

FIGURE 1.5 Anterior views of the (A) axillary and (B) brachial regions.
6 Atlas of the Human Body

FIGURE 1.6 Anterior views of the (A) axillary and (B) brachial regions.
 Upper Limb and Vascularization Chapter | 1 7

FIGURE 1.7 (A) Anterior view of the axillary fossa. (B) Anterior view of the fetal arterial distribution over rib cage and arm (corrosion cast).
8 Atlas of the Human Body

FIGURE 1.8 The pectoral region. (A) Superficial layer. (B) Deep layer. (C) Axillary fossa after the removal of medial and lateral cords of the brachial
plexus.
 Upper Limb and Vascularization Chapter | 1 9

FIGURE 1.9 Superficial layer of the scapular region. (A) Scapular and (B) posterior brachial regions.
10 Atlas of the Human Body

FIGURE 1.10 (A) Middle layer of the scapular region and (B) the posterior brachial region.
 Upper Limb and Vascularization Chapter | 1 11

FIGURE 1.11 Deep layer of the scapular region. Illustrations of structures: (A) muscles, (B) vascularization, (C) and details.
12 Atlas of the Human Body

FIGURE 1.12 (A) Anterior cubital region. (B–C) Superficial layer of the anterior antebrachial region.
 Upper Limb and Vascularization Chapter | 1 13

FIGURE 1.13 Deep layer (A–B) of the anterior antebrachial region.

14 Atlas of the Human Body

FIGURE 1.14 Superficial structures in the palmar region. (A–C) Different layers offering structural details.
 Upper Limb and Vascularization Chapter | 1 15

FIGURE 1.15 Structures in the palmar region deep to palmar aponeurosis. (A–B) Different specimens offering structural details.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
The Project Gutenberg eBook of The mill of
silence
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away
or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License
included with this ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you
are not located in the United States, you will have to check the
laws of the country where you are located before using this
eBook.

Title: The mill of silence

Author: Bernard Capes

Release date: August 5, 2022 [eBook #68688]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Rand, McNally & Company,

1896

Credits: an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MILL OF

SILENCE ***
THE MILL OF SILENCE
BY
B. E. J. CAPES.

CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:

RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY,
MDCCCXCVII.
 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.
 CHAPTER I.
THE INMATES OF THE MILL.

My story begins like a fairy tale. Once upon a time there was a
miller who had three sons. Here, however, the resemblance ceases.
At this late date I, the last stricken inmate of the Mill of Silence, set it
down for a warning and a menace; not entirely in despair, perhaps,
but with a fitful flickering of hope that at the last moment my soul
may be rent from me into a light it has never yet foreseen.
We were three brothers, sons of a gray, old man, whose father,
and his father before him, had owned and run a flour mill in the
ancient city of Winton in Hampshire. This mill stood a little back from
the north side of the east and more deserted end of the High street,
and faced a little bridge—wooden in those days, but stone now—
through which raced the first of the mill fall that came thundering out
from under the old timber building, as though it had burst at a push
some ancient dam and were hurrying off to make up for lost ages of
restraint. The house, a broad single red-tiled gable, as seen from the
bridge, stood crushed in between other buildings, and in all my
memory of it was a crazy affair in appearance and ever in two minds
about slipping into the boisterous water below and so flushing all that
quarter of the town with an overflow, as it were, of its own ancient
dropsy. It was built right across the stream, with the mill wheel buried
in its heart; and I can recall a certain childish speculation as to the
results which would follow a possible relaxing of the house pressure
on either side; in which case I hopefully assumed the wheel would
slip out of its socket, and, carrying the frail bridge before it, roll
cheerfully down stream on its own axle to the huge delight of all
adventurous spirits.
Our reputation in Winton was not, I am sorry to say, good. There
was a whispered legend of uncanniness about the mill itself, which
might mean little or nothing, and a notoriety with regard to its
inmates which did mean a good deal. The truth is, not to mince
matters, that my father was a terrible drunkard, and that his three
sons—not the eldest of whom retained more than a shadowy
remembrance of a long-departed mother’s influence—were from
early years fostered in an atmosphere that reeked with that one form
of moral depravity. A quite youthful recollection of mine is the sight of
my father, thin, bent, gray bearded, and with a fierce, not uncomely
face, jerking himself to sudden stoppages at points in the High street
to apostrophize with menacing fury the devils born of his disease.
To the world about us my father was nothing but a worthless
inebriate, who had early abandoned himself to profligate courses,
content to live upon the little fortune left him by his predecessors and
to leave his children to run to seed as they listed in the stagnant
atmosphere of vice. What the world did not know was the secret side
of my father’s character—the wild, fierce imagination of the man; the
creative spirit of his healthier moods and the passionate reverence of
beauty which was as habitual to him as the craze for strong waters.
He exercised a despotic influence over us, and we subscribed
admiringly to his rule with the snarling submissiveness of young tiger
cubs. I think the fragmentary divinity that nests in odd, neglected
corners of each and every frame of life, took some recognition of a
higher type from which it had inherited. Mentally, at his best, my
father was as much above us as, by some cantrip of fate, he was
superior to the sullen, plodding stock of which he was born.
Three days out of the week he was drunk; vision-haunted, almost
unapproachable; and this had been so from time that was
immemorial to us. The period of compulsory education had not yet
agitated the community at large, and our intellects he permitted to
run to grass with our bodies. On our pursuits, pastoral, urban, and
always mischievous if occasion offered, he put no restraint whatever,
yet encouraged a sort of half-savage clannishness among us that
held the mill for fortress and the world for besiegers.
Perhaps it was not until I was rising 18 that any speculation as to
the raison d’être of our manner of life began to stir in my brain. My
eldest brother, Jason, was then a tall, handsome fellow of 19, with a
crisp devil in his corn-colored hair and a silent one in his eyes, that
were shot with changing blue. Modred, the youngest, some eighteen
months my junior, was a contrast to Jason in every way. He was a
heavy, pasty boy, with an aggravating droop in his lids and a large
unspeculative face. He was entirely self-contained, armored against
satire and unmoved of the spirit of tears. A sounding smack on the
cheek, delivered in the one-sided heat of argument, brought his face,
like a stolid phantasm, projected toward the striker’s in a wooden
impassivity that was infinitely more maddening than abuse. It
showed no more resentment than a battered Aunt Sally’s, but rather
assumed a mockery of curiosity as to the bullying methods of the
strong against the weak. Speaking of him, I have no object but to
present a portrait, unprejudiced alike of regard or disfavor. This, I
entreat, may be borne in mind.
One afternoon, in late April weather, Jason and I were loitering
and idling about some meadows within rifle shot of the old city
outskirts. We lay upon our faces in the long grass beside a clear,
shallow burn, intent upon sport less lawful than exciting. The country
about Winton is laced with innumerable streams and freshets and
therein without exception are trout in great quantity, though mostly
shy to come at from the little depth and extreme transparency of the
water. That the fishing is everywhere “preserved” goes without
saying, and it follows in order that poaching is pretty general.
We were poaching, in truth, and extremely enjoying it as usual.
Jason held in his hand a willow wand, fitted with a line, which was
baited with a brandling fat from the manure heap. This it was
essential to swing gently, ourselves crouching hidden as far as
possible, into the liveliest streaks of the current where it ran cleanly
over pebbles, and to let it swim naturally downstream the length of
the rod’s tether. Occasionally, if not so often as one could wish, the
plump bait would lure some youngling, imperfect in guile, from
security of the stones and a sudden jerking of the tough willow would
communicate a galvanic thrill of excitement to our every fiber. The
experience did not stale by a too-frequent repetition, and was
scarcely marred in our eyes by the ever-present necessity of keeping
a vigilant lookout for baleful intruders on our privacy. Our worst foe,
in this respect, was a great bosom of chalk and turf, known as St.
Catherine’s hill, which rose directly in front of us some short distance
on the further side of the stream, and from which it was easy for any
casual enemy to detect our every movement. However, as fortune
would have it, the hill was but comparatively little favored of the
townsfolk.
“Ware!” said I, suddenly.
Jason drew his line swiftly and horizontally from the water and
dropped it and the rod deftly under the fringe of the bank.
We turned on our backs, lazily blinking at the sky.
A figure was sauntering along by the side of the little river toward
us. It was that of an ill-dressed man of 45 or so, ball-jointed and
cadaverous, with a wet, wandering blue eye and light brick-colored
hair brushed back into rat-tails. His mouth was one pencil mark
twitched up at the corners, and his ears, large and shapeless, stood
up prominently like a bat’s. He carried his hands behind his back and
rolled his head from side to side as he walked. He espied us a long
way off and stopped presently, looking down upon us.
“Sinews of whipcord,” he said, in a voice thin as his lips, “and
hearts of cats! What tomfoolery now?”
My brother raised his head, yawning lazily.
“Tom Fool hisself,” said he.
“I am not,” said the newcomer, “near such a fool as I look. I can tell
the likeliest place for tickling trouts, now, anywhere.”
Jason grunted.
“And that’s the Itchen,” went on the other with an enjoying chuckle.
We vouchsafed him a patronizing laughter.
“Too good,” he said; “too good for lob worms and sand-hoppers.
Where’s the best place to find trouts, now—the little speckled
trouts?”
“Where?” said I.
“Caught!” he cried, and pounced upon Jason.
There was a short, bitter struggle between them, and the man,
leaving the boy sitting panting on the grass, leaped apart with a
speckled trophy held aloft in his hand.
“Give it back!” cried my brother, rising, white and furious, “or I’ll
brain you!” He seized up a great lump of chalk as he spoke and
balanced it in his hand.
“Softly,” said the other, very coolly slipping the trout into the wide
pocket of his coat. Jason watched him with glittering eyes.
 “Give it back to him, Dr. Crackenthorpe,” I cried, “or he’ll do you a
hurt!”
In one moment the doctor dropped on his knees at the instant that
the missile spun over him and splashed among the marigolds far in
the meadow beyond; in the next Jason was down on his back again,
with the tall man’s knuckles at his throat and his bony knee planted
on his chest.
“Puppy of Satan!” he hissed in grim fury. “D’ye dare to pursue me
with murderous hate!”
Tooth and nail I fell upon the victor like a wild cat and tore at him.
His strength was marvelous. Holding my brother down with his left
hand, he swung his right behind his back, clutched me over, and
rolled us both together in a struggling heap.
“Now,” said he, jumping to his feet and daring us, “move a muscle
to rise and I’ll hold your mouths under water for the frogs to dive in.”
It was the only sort of argument that appealed to us—the
argument of resourceful strength that could strike and baffle at once.
When he had recovered his breath sufficiently to laugh, Jason
tittered. From the first the fateful charm of my brother was the
pleasant music of his voice and the pliant adaptability of his moods.
“Keep the fish, doctor,” he said; “we give in.” He always answered
for both of us.
“Well,” said Dr. Crackenthorpe, “that’s wise.” He stepped back as
he spoke to signify that we might get on our feet, which we did.
“I keep the trout,” he said, grandly, “in evidence, and shall cast
over in my mind the pros and cons of my duty to the authorities in
the matter.”
At this, despite our discomfiture, we laughed like young hyenas.
The trout, we knew, was destined for the doctor’s own table. He was
a notorious skinflint, to whom sixpence saved from the cooking pot
was a coin redoubled of its face value.
He made as if to continue his way, but paused again, and shot a
question at Jason.
“Dad had any more finds?”
“No,” said Jason, “and if he had you wouldn’t get ’em.”
Dr. Crackenthorpe looked at the boy a minute, shrugged his
shoulders and moved off.
 And here, at this point, his question calls for some explanation.
One day, some twelve months or so earlier than the incident just
described, we of the mill being all collected together for dinner and
my father just coming out of one of his drunken fits, a coin tinkled on
the floor and rolled into the empty fireplace, where it lay shining
yellow. My father, who had somehow jerked it out of his pocket from
the trembling of his hand, walked unsteadily across the room and
stood looking down upon it vacantly. There he remained for a minute
or two, we watching him, and from time to time shot a stealthy
glance round at one or other of us. Twice or thrice he made as if to
pick it up, but his heart apparently failed him, for he desisted.
Suddenly, however, he had it in his hand and stood fingering it, still
watchful of us.
“Well,” he said at last, “there it is for all the world to see,” and
placed it on the mantelpiece. Then he turned round to us expectant.
“That coin,” he said, slowly, “was given me by a man who dug it up
in his garden hereabouts when he was forking potatoes. It’s ancient
and a curiosity. There it remains for ornament.”
Now whether this was only some caprice of the moment or that he
dreaded that had he then and there pouched it some boyish spirit of
curiosity might tempt one or other of us to turn out his pockets in
search of the treasure when he was in one of his liquorish trances,
and so make further discoveries, we could never know. Anyhow, on
the mantelpiece the coin lay for some weeks; a contemptible little
disk to view, with an odd figure of an ill-formed mannikin stamped on
one side of it, and no one of us offered to touch it, until one day Dr.
Crackenthorpe paid us a visit.
This worthy had only recently come to Winton, tempted hither, I
think, more by lure of antiquities than by any set determination to
establish a practice in the town. Indeed, in the result, as I have
heard, his fees for any given year would never have quarter filled a
wineglass unless paid in pence. He had a small private income and
two weaknesses—one a craze for coin collecting, the other a
feverish palate, which brought him acquainted with my father, in this
wise—that he encountered the old man one night when the latter
was complacently swerving into the Itchen at a point known as “The
Weirs,” where the water is deep, and conducted him graciously
home. The next day he called, and, it becoming apparent that fees
were not his object, a rough, queer acquaintance was struck up
between the two men, which brought the doctor occasionally to our
mill at night for a pipe and a glass. He was the only outsider ever
admitted to our slightest intimacy, with the single exception of a
baneful old woman, known as Peg Rottengoose, who came in every
day to do the cooking and housework and to steal what scraps she
could.
Now, on one of these visits, the doctor’s eye was casually caught
by the glint of the coin on the mantelpiece. He clawed it at once, and
as he examined it the man’s long, gaunt face lighted from inward
with enthusiasm.
“Where did you get this?” he cried, his hands shaking with
excitement.
“A neighbor dug it up in his garden and gave it me. Let it be, can’t
you?” said my father, roughly.
“Pooh, man! Such things are not given without reason. What was
the reason? Stay—tell me the name of the man.”
I thought my father paled a little and shifted uneasily in his chair.
“I tell you,” he said, hoarsely, “he gave it me.”
“And I don’t believe it,” cried the other. “You found it yourself, and
where this came from more may be.”
My father sprung to his feet.
“Get out of my house!” he shouted, “and take your ‘may be’s’ to
the foul fiend!”
Dr. Crackenthorpe placed his pipe and the coin very gently on the
table and walked stiffly to the door. He had almost reached it when
my father’s voice, quite changed and soft, stopped him.
“Don’t take offense, man. Come and talk it over.”
Dr. Crackenthorpe retraced his steps, resumed his chair, and sat
staring stonily at my father.
“It’s true,” said the latter, dropping his eyes, “every word. It’s true,
sir, I tell you.”
The doctor never spoke, and my father stole an anxious glance up
at him.
“Well,” he said, with an effort; “anyhow, it’s a small matter to
separate cronies. I don’t know the value of these gimcracks, but as
you take pleasure in collecting ’em, I’ll—I’ll—come now, I’ll make you
a present of it.”
The doctor became human once more, and for a second time
clutched the coin radiantly. My father heaved a profound sigh, but he
never moved.
“Well,” he said, “now you’ve got it, perhaps you’ll state the
particular value of that old piece of metal.”
“It’s a gold Doric!” cried the doctor; “as rare a——” he checked
himself suddenly and went on with a ludicrous affectation of
indifference—“rare enough just to make it interesting. No intrinsic
value—none whatever.”
A little wicked smile twitched up my father’s bearded cheeks. Each
man sat forward for some minutes pulling at his pipe; but it was
evident the effort of social commonplace was too much for Dr.
Crackenthorpe. Presently he rose and said he must be going. He
was obviously on thorns until he could secure his treasure in a safe
place. For a quarter of an hour after the door had closed behind him,
my father sat on gloomily smoking and muttering to himself. Then
suddenly he woke to consciousness of our presence and ordered us,
savagely, almost madly, off to bed.
This explains the doctor’s question of Jason and is a necessary
digression. Now to the meadows once more and a little experience
that befell there after the intruder’s departure.
 CHAPTER II.
A NIXIE.

My brother tired of his fishing for the nonce, and for an hour we lay
on our backs in the grass chatting desultorily.
“Jason,” said I, suddenly, “what do we live on?”
“What we can get,” said my brother, sleepily.
“But I mean—where does it come from; who provides it?”
“Oh, don’t bother, Renny. We have enough to eat and drink and do
as we like. What more do you want?”
“I don’t know. I want to know, that’s all. I can’t tell why. Where does
the money come from?”
“Tom Tiddler. He was our grandfather.”
“Don’t be a fool. Dad never worked the mill that we remember.”
“But Tom Tiddler did before him.”
“Not to the tune that would keep four loafers in idleness for sixteen
years.”
“Well, I don’t care. Perhaps dad’s a highwayman.”
I kicked at the grass impatiently.
“It must end some day, you know.”
Jason tilted his cap from his eyes and blinked at me.
“What d’ye mean, piggy?”
“Suppose dad died or went mad?”
“We’d sell the mill and have a rare time of it.”
“Oh, you great clown! Sell it for what? Driftwood? And how long
would the rare time last?”
“You’re mighty particular to-day. I hate answering questions. Let
me alone.”
“I won’t,” I said, viciously. “I want your opinion.”
“Well, it’s that you’re a precious fool!”
“What for?”
“To bother your head with what you can’t answer, when the sun’s
shining.”
 “I can’t help bothering my head,” I said. “I’ve been bothering it, I
think, ever since dad gave old Crackenthorpe that medal last year.”
Jason sat up.
“So you noticed it, too,” he said. “Renny, there’s depths in the old
man that we sha’n’t plumb.”
“Well, I’ve taken to thinking of things a bit,” said I.
Jason—so named, at any period (I never saw a register of the
christening of any one of us) because of his golden fleece, shook it
and set to whistling softly.
His name—Modred’s, too—mine was Renalt, and more local—
were evidence of my father’s superior culture as compared with most
of his class. They were odd, if you like, but having a little knowledge
and fancifulness to back them, gave proof of a certain sum of
desultory reading on his part; the spirit of which was transmitted to
his children.
I was throwing myself back with a dissatisfied grunt, when of a
sudden a shrill screech came toward us from a point apparently on
the river path fifty yards lower down. We jumped to our feet and
raced headlong in the direction of the sound. Nothing was to be
seen. It was not until the cry was repeated, almost from under our
very feet, that we realized the reason of it.
All about Winton the banks of the main streams are pierced at
intervals to admit runlets of clear water into the meadows below.
Such a boring there was of a goodish caliber at the point where we
stopped; and here the water, breaking through in a little fall, tumbled
into a stone basin, some three feet square and five deep, that was
sunk to its rim in a rough trench of the meadow soil. Into this
brimming trough a young girl had slipped and would drown in time,
for, though she clung on to the edge with frantic hands, her efforts to
escape had evidently exhausted her to such an extent that she could
now do no more than look up to us, as we stood on the bank above,
with wild, beseeching eyes.
I was going to jump to her help, when Jason stayed me with his
hand.
“Hist, Renny!” he whispered. “I’ve never seen a body drown.”
“Nor shall,” said I, hoping he jested.
 “Let me shove her hands off,” he said, in the same wondering
tone. One moment, with a shock, I saw the horrible meaning in his
face; the next, with a quick movement I had flung him down and
jumped. He rose at once with a slight cut on his lips, but before he
could recover himself I had the girl out by the hands and had
stretched her limp and prostrate on the grass. Then I paused,
embarrassed, and he stood above looking down upon us.
“You’ll have to pay for that, Renny,” he said, “sooner or later”—
and, of course, I knew I should.
“Turn the creature on her face, you dolt!” he continued, “and let the
water run out of her pipes.”
I endeavored to comply, but the girl, always keeping her eyes shut,
resisted feebly. I dropped upon my knees and smoothed away the
sodden tresses from her face. Thus revealed it seemed an oddly
pretty one; the skin half transparent, like rice paper; the forehead
rounding from the nose like a kitten’s. But she never opened her
eyes, so that I could not see what was their color, though the lashes
were black.
Presently a horror seized me that she was dead, and I shook her
pretty roughly by the shoulder.
“Oh,” she cried, with a whimper, “don’t!”
I was so rejoiced at this evidence of life that I gave a whoop. Then
I bent over her.
“It’s all right, girl,” I said; “you’re safe; I saved you.”
Her lips were moving again and I stopped to listen. “What did he
want to drown me for?” she whispered.
She was thinking of my brother, not of me. For a flash her eyes
opened, violet, like lightning, and glanced up at him standing above;
then they closed again.
“Come,” I said, roughly; “if you can talk, you can get up.”
The girl struggled into a sitting posture and then rose to her feet.
She was tall, almost as tall as I was, and about my age, I should
think. Her dress, so far as one could judge, it being sopped with
water, was a poor patched affair, and rough country shoes were on
her feet.
“Take me somewhere, where I can dry,” she said, imperiously.
“Don’t let him come—he needn’t follow.”