d home. He stood a moment in the mill-door,
looking back over the town which he had just left.

"`The night cometh, when no man can work,'" he said to himself. "Grant
me, Lord, to be about Thy business until the Master cometh!"

And he knew, while he said it, that in all likelihood to him that coming
would be in a chariot of fire, and that to be busied with that work
would bring it nearer and sooner.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT.

FILLING THE RANKS.

As Mr Ewring stood looking out, he saw somebody coming up from the gate
towards the mill--a girl, who walked slowly, as if she felt very hot or
very tired. The day was warm, but not oppressively so; and he watched
her coming languidly up the road, till he saw that it was Amy Clere.
What could she want at the mill? Mr Ewring waited to see.

"Good den, Mistress Amy," said he, as she came nearer.

Amy looked up as if it startled her to be addressed.

"Good den, Master Ewring. Father's sending some corn to be ground, and
he desired you to know the last was ground a bit too fine for his
liking: would you take the pains to have it coarser ground, an' it
please you?"

"I will see to it, Mistress Amy. A fine even, methinks?"

"Ay, right fair," replied Amy in that manner which shows that the
speaker's thoughts are away elsewhere. But she did not offer to go; she
lingered about the mill-door, in the style of one who has something to
say which she is puzzled or unwilling to bring out.

"You seem weary," said Mr Ewring, kindly; "pray you, sit and rest you a
space in the porch."

Amy took the seat suggested at once.

"Master Clere is well, I trust?--and Mistress Clere likewise?"

"They are well, I thank you."

Mr Ewring noticed suddenly that Amy's eyes were full of tears.

"Mistress Amy," said he, "I would not by my good-will be meddlesome in
matters that concern me not, but it seemeth me all is scarce well with
you. If so be that I can serve you any way, I trust you will say so
much."

"Master Ewring, I am the unhappiest maid in all Colchester."

"Truly, I am right sorry to hear it."

"I lack one to help me, and I know not to whom to turn. You could,
if--"

"Then in very deed I will. Pray give me to wit how?"

Amy looked up at him. "Master Ewring, I set out for Heaven, and I have
lost the way."

"Why, Mistress Amy! surely you know well enough--"

"No, I don't," she said, cutting him short. "Lack-a-day! I never took
no heed when I might have learn