outbreak of temper. He had chosen his time
badly, and he got a serious reply.

"Understand this," I said: "either you receive me civilly--or you make up
your mind to find a flour-mill on some other property than mine."

This had its effect. The miller's servility more than equalled his
insolence. With profuse apologies, he offered me his own bedroom. I
preferred a large old-fashioned armchair which stood in a corner of the
kitchen. Listening in a state of profound bewilderment--longing to put
inquisitive questions, and afraid to do so--Toller silently appealed to
my compassion. I had nothing to conceal; I mentioned my motive. Without
intending it, I had wounded him in one of his most tender places; the
place occupied by his good opinion of himself. He said with sulky
submission:

"Much obliged, Mr. Gerard. My girl is safe under my protection. Leave it
to me, sir--leave it to me."

I had just reminded old Toller of his age, and of the infirmities which
age brings with it, when his daughter--pale and languid, with signs of
recent tears in her eyes--entered the kitchen. When I approached her, she
trembled and drew back; apparently designing to leave the room. Her
father stopped her. "Mr. Gerard has something to tell you," he said. "I'm
off to the mill." He took up his hat, and left us.

Submitting sadly, she let me take her in my arms, and try to cheer her.
But when I alluded to what I owed to her admirable devotion and courage,
she entreated me to be silent. "Don't bring it all back!" she cried,
shuddering at the remembrances which I had awakened, "Father said you had
something to tell me. What is it?"

I repeated (in language more gentle and more considerate) what I had
already said to her father. She took my hand, and kissed it gratefully.
"You have your mother's face, and your mother's heart," she said; "you
are always good, you are never selfish. But it mustn't be. How can I let
you suffer the discomfort of staying here? Indeed, I am in no danger; you
are alarming yourself without a cause."

"How can you be sure of that?" I asked.

She looked reluctantly at the door of communication.

"Must I speak of him?"

"Only to tell me," I pleaded, "whether you have seen him since last
night."

She had both seen him and heard from him, on reaching home. "He opened
that door," she told me, "and threw on the floor one of the leaves out of
his book. After doing that, he relieved me from the sight of him."

"Show me t