Soon after the bar-room was empty; and then I walked around the premises, in company with the landlord, and listened to his praise of everything and his plans and purposes for the future.  The house, yard, garden, and out-buildings were in the most perfect order; presenting, in the whole, a model of a village tavern.

“Whatever I do, sir,” said the talkative Simon Slade, “I like to do well.  I wasn’t just raised to tavern-keeping, you must know; but I am one who can turn his hand to almost any thing.”

“What was your business?” I inquired.

“I’m a miller, sir, by trade,” he answered—­“and a better miller, though I say it myself, is not to be found in Bolton county.  I’ve followed milling these twenty years, and made some little money.  But I got tired of hard work, and determined to lead an easier life.  So I sold my mill, and built this house with the money.  I always thought I’d like tavern-keeping.  It’s an easy life; and, if rightly seen after, one in which a man is sure to make money.”

“You were still doing a fair business with your mill?”

“Oh, yes.  Whatever I do, I do right.  Last year, I put by a thousand dollars above all expenses, which is not bad, I can assure you, for a mere grist mill.  If the present owner comes out even, he’ll do well!”

“How is that?”

“Oh, he’s no miller.  Give him the best wheat that is grown, and he’ll ruin it in grinding.  He takes the life out of every grain.  I don’t believe he’ll keep half the custom that I transferred with the mill.”

“A thousand dollars, clear profit, in so useful a business, ought to have satisfied you,” said I.

“There you and I differ,” answered the landlord.  “Every man desires to make as much money as possible, and with the least labor.  I hope to make two or three thousand dollars a year, over and above all expenses, at tavern-keeping.  My bar alone ought to yield me that sum.  A man with a wife and children very naturally tries to do as well by them as possible.”

“Very true; but,” I ventured to suggest, “will this be doing as well by them as if you had kept on at the mill?”

“Two or three thousand dollars a year against one thousand!  Where are your figures, man?”

“There may be something beyond money to take into the account,” said I.

“What?” inquired Slade, with a kind of half credulity.

“Consider the different influences of the two callings in life—­ that of a miller and a tavern-keeper.”

“Well, say on.”

“Will your children be as safe from temptation here as in their former home?”

“Just as safe,” was the unhesitating answer.  “Why not?”

I was about to speak of the alluring glass in the case of Frank, but remembering that I had already expressed a fear in that direction, felt that to do so again would be useless, and so kept silent.

“A tavern-keeper,” said Slade, “is just as respectable as a miller—­in fact, the very people who used to call me ‘Simon’ or ‘Neighbor Dustycoat,’ now say ‘Landlord,’ or ‘Mr. Slade,’ and treat me in every way more as if I were an equal than ever they did before.”