nto the duster, and there it gets more chaff
blowed off'n it. And from the duster it goes into the hopper, and down
in betwixt the stones; and them stones grind, grind, grind, till you'd
think the life was ground clear'n out of it. But 'tain't so; contrary!
That's affliction; the upper and nether millstone--Scriptur! Maybe
sickness, maybe losin' your folks, maybe business troubles,--whichever
comes is the wust, and more than any mortal man ever had to bear before.
Well, now, see! That stuff goes in there, grain; it comes out wheat
flour! Then you take and wet it down and put your 'east in,--that's
thought, I expect, or brains,--or might be a woman,--and you bake it in
the oven,--call that--well, 'git-up-and-git' is all I can think of, but
I should aim for a better word, talkin' to a foreigner."

"Purpose," I suggested.

"That's it! purpose! bake it in that oven, and you have a loaf of wheat
bread, riz bread; and that's the best eatin' that's ben invented yet.
That's food for the hungry,--which raw wheat ain't, except it's cattle.
But now you hear me, boys! To git wheat bread, riz bread, you've got to
have wheat to begin with. You've got to have good stuff to start with.
You can't make good riz bread out o' field corn. But take good stuff and
grind it in the Lord's mill, and you've got the best this world can
give. That's my philos'phy!"

He nodded his head to the last words, which fell slowly and weightily;
and as he did so, the sparrow that had been perched on his head ran down
his nose and fluttered in his face, seeming to ask how he dared make
such a disturbance. "I beg your pardon, I'm sure!" said Ham. "I'd no
notion I was interferin' with you. Why didn't you hit one of your
size?"

CHAPTER VII.

IT was in the grist-mill loft, too, that Yvon brought forward his great
plan, what he called the project of his life,--that of taking me back to
France with him. I remember how I laughed when he spoke of it; it seemed
as easy for me to fly to the moon as to cross the ocean, a thing which
none of my father's people had done since the first settlers came. My
mother, to be sure, had come from France, but that was a different
matter; nor had her talk of the sea made me feel any longing for it. But
Yvon had set his heart on it; and his gay talk flowed round and over my
objections, as your brook runs over stones. I must go; I should go! I
should see my tower, the castle of my fathers. It was out of repair, he
could