‘What in the world are you all about!’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Falkirk.  ’Get what you can my good girl; only don’t stand about it.  Can you give her a glass of milk? or a cup of tea?’

The girl left them and sprang away up the path at a rate that showed her good will, followed by Rollo.  Arrived at the miller’s house, which proved a poor little affair, the cup of tea was hastily brewed; and Rollo having contrived to find out pretty well the resources of the family in that as well as in other lines of accommodation, and having despatched along with the tea whatever he thought might stand least chance of being refused, left the miller’s daughter to convey it, and betook himself to his own amusements.

The meal was not much.  But when it was over Wych Hazel found a better refreshment and one even more needed just then.  Mrs. Saddler at a little distance nodded and dreamed; Mr. Falkirk also had moved off and at least made believe rest.  Then did his ward take the comfort, a rare one to her, of pouring out a mindful to somebody of her own sex and age.  It was only to the little miller’s daughter; yet the true honest face and rapt attention made amends for all want of conventionalities.

‘What did you get that salts for?’ she began.

‘He said you was faint.’

‘Who is “he"?’

‘The gentleman—­I mean the young one.’

’Ah—­Well, but I was holding you down by the blue ribband for ever so long.’

‘Yes—­because—­I had promised not to take it off,’ said the girl, blushing.

‘What a promise?’

’O, but you know, ma’am—­I mean, it was give to me, and so I promised.  When folks give you things they always expect you never to take ’em off.’

‘Do they?’ said Wych Hazel.  But then she launched forth into the account of all the day’s distress, electrifying her listener with some of the fear and excitement so long pent up.  Yet the mill girl’s comment was peculiar.

’It does make a person feel very solemn to be so near to death.’

‘Solemn!’ cried Wych Hazel.  ’Is that all you would feel, Phoebe?’

’I’m not much afraid of pain, you know, ma’am—­and if the fire took it couldn’t last long.’

‘But Phoebe;—­’ she sat straight up on her floury cushions, looking at the girl’s quiet face.  ’What do you mean, Phoebe?’—­ She could not have told what checked the expression of her growing wonder.

‘O lie down, ma’am, please!  Why I only mean,’ said Phoebe speaking with perfect simplicity—­’You know God calls us all to die somehow—­and if he called me to die so, it wouldn’t make much difference.  I shouldn’t think of it when I’d got to heaven.’

Again some undefined feeling sealed Wych Hazel’s lips.  She lay down as she was desired, and with her hand over her eyes thought, and wondered, and fell asleep.