We have walked this evening down to the old mill by the river Mole. I have, not unnaturally, a great affection for a watermill, as I passed all my childhood so close to its thumping mysteries, and my bedroom window as a girl was just above the rushing mill-tail, where the brown trout lay under the Laurels. My old mill is all modernised and altered now, while here the miller says with pride: 'I have been here fifty-two years, and I grind the flour with the old stones - no modern china rollers for me!' We buy his flour - his 'seconds' and his 'whole-meal' - and his bran. The latter is what we really went down to fetch, as one of my nieces is fond of bran-water. This wildly stimulating beverage - far too much a tonic for my age - is an American drink. You pour cold water on two handfuls of fresh bran, let it stand for four hours, and then pour it off. It is supposed to contain some of the phosphates in the husks of the wheat, and consequently has much of the nourishing qualities of brown bread.