The night was very still; there was, I thought, no one awake within miles of me.  The stars seemed to shine into me the divine reproach of those glorious words.  “O my God!” I cried, and fell on my knees by the mill-door.

What I tried to say more I will not say here.  I may say that I cried to God.  What I said to Him ought not, cannot be repeated to another.

When I opened my eyes I saw the door of the mill was open too, and there in the door, his white head glimmering, stood Old Rogers, with a look on his face as if he had just come down from the mount.  I started to my feet, with that strange feeling of something like shame that seizes one at the very thought of other eyes than those of the Father.  The old man came forward, and bowed his head with an unconscious expression of humble dignity, but would have passed me without speech, leaving the mill-door open behind him.  I could not bear to part with him thus.

“Won’t you speak to me, Rogers ?” I said.

He turned at once with evident pleasure.

“I beg your pardon, sir.  I was ashamed of having intruded on you, and I thought you would rather be left alone.  I thought—­I thought—–­” hesitated the old man, “that you might like to go into the mill, for the night’s cold out o’ doors.”

“Thank you, Rogers.  I won’t now.  I thought you had been in bed.  How do you come to be out so late?”

“You see, sir, when I’m in any trouble, it’s no use to go to bed.  I can’t sleep.  I only keep the old ‘oman wakin’.  And the key o’ the mill allus hangin’ at the back o’ my door, and knowin’ it to be a good place to—­to—­shut the door in, I came out as soon as she was asleep; but I little thought to see you, sir.”

“I came to find you, not thinking how the time went.  Catherine Weir is gone home.”

“I am right glad to hear it, poor woman.  And perhaps something will come out now that will help us.”

“I do not quite understand you,” I said, with hesitation.

But Rogers made no reply.

“I am sorry to hear you are in trouble to-night.  Can I help you?” I resumed.

“If you can help yourself, sir, you can help me.  But I have no right to say so.  Only, if a pair of old eyes be not blind, a man may pray to God about anything he sees.  I was prayin’ hard about you in there, sir, while you was on your knees o’ the other side o’ the door.”

I could partly guess what the old man meant, and I could not ask him for further explanation.

“What did you want to see me about?” I inquired.

He hesitated for a moment.

“I daresay it was very foolish of me, sir.  But I just wanted to tell you that—­our Jane was down here from the Hall this arternoon——­”

“I passed her on the bridge.  Is she quite well?”

“Yes, yes, sir.  You know that’s not the point.”

The old man’s tone seemed to reprove me for vain words, and I held my peace.