any thing I heard of I’ve tried, as well as what the doctor ordered, and rubbing it with some stuff Lady Louisa’s mamma insisted upon, too,—­even to a frog put into the dear child’s mouth, and drawed back by its legs, that’s supposed to be a certain cure, but only frightened it into a fit I thought it never would have come out of, as well as fetching her ladyship all the way from her boudoir to know what was the matter—­which I no more dared tell her than fly.”

“Dear, dear!” said the miller’s wife; “have you tried goose-grease, mum?  ’Tis an excellent thing.”

“Goose-grease, ma’am, and an excellent ointment from the bone-setter’s at the toll-bar, which the butler paid for out of his own pocket, knowing it to have done a world of good to his sister that had a bad leg, besides being a certain cure for coughs, and cancer, and consumption as well.  And then the doctor’s imprecation on its little chest, night and morning, besides; but nothing don’t seem to do no good,” said the poor nurse.  “And so, ma’am,—­her ladyship being gone to the town,—­thinks I, I’ll take the dear child to the windmill.  For they do say,—­where I came from, ma’am,—­that if a miller, that’s the son of a miller, and the grandson of a miller, holds a child that’s got the whooping-cough in the hopper of the mill whilst the mill’s going, it cures them, however bad they be.”

The reason of the nurse’s visit being now made known, Mrs. Lake called her husband, and explained to him what he was asked to do for “her ladyship’s baby.”  The miller scratched his head.

“I’ve heard my father say that his brother that drove a mill in Cheshire had had it to do,” said he, “but I never did it myself, ma’am, nor ever see un done.  And a hopper be an ackerd place, ma’am.  We’ve ground many a cat in this mill, from getting in the hopper at nights for warmth.  However,” he added, “I suppose I can hold the little lady pretty tight.”  And finally, though with some unwillingness, the miller consented to try the charm; being chiefly influenced by the wish not to disoblige the gentlefolk at the Grange.

The little Jan had watched the proceedings of the visitors with great attention.  During the poor baby’s fit of coughing, he was so absorbed that the sandy kitten slipped through his arms and made off, with her tail as stiff as a sentry’s musket; and now that the miller took the baby into his arms, Jan became excited, and asked, “What daddy do with un?”

“The old-fashioned little piece!” exclaimed the nurse, admiringly.  And Mrs. Lake added, “Let un see the little lady, maester.”

The miller held out the baby, and the nurse, removing a dainty handkerchief edged with Valenciennes lace from its face, introduced it as “Miss Amabel Adeline Ammaby;” and Mrs. Lake murmured, “What a lovely little thing!” By which, for truth’s sake, it is to be hoped she meant the lace-edged handkerchief.

In the exchange of civilities between the two women, the respective children in their charge were admonished to kiss each other,—­a feat which was accomplished by Jan’s kissing the baby very tenderly, and with all his usual gravity.