“Do you suppose the genle’m be the father, missus?” he suggested, as he rose to go back to his work.
“Maybe,” said his wife, briefly; “I can’t speak one way or another to the feelings of men-folk.”
This blow was hit straight out, but the windmiller forbore reply. He was not altogether ill-pleased by it, for the woman’s unwonted peevishness broke down in new tears over the child, whom she bore away to bed, pouring forth over it half inarticulate indignation against its unnatural parents.
“She’ve a soft heart, have the missus,” said the windmiller, thoughtfully, as he went to the outer door. “I’m in doubts if she won’t take to it more than her own yet. But she shall have her own time.”
The storm had passed. The wolds lay glistening and dreary under a watery sky, but all was still. The windmiller looked upwards mechanically. To be weatherwise was part of his trade. But his thoughts were not in the clouds to-night. He brought the sample bag, without thinking of it, to the surface of his pocket, and dropped it slowly back again, murmuring, “Ten shilling a week.”
And as he turned again to his night’s work he added, with a nod of complete conviction, “It’ll more’n keep _he_.”
THE WINDMILLER’S WORDS COME TRUE.—THE RED SHAWL.—IN THE CLOUDS.—NURSING V. PIG-MINDING.—THE ROUND-HOUSE.—THE MILLER’S THUMB.
STRANGE to say, the windmiller’s idea came true in time,—the foster-child was the favorite.
He was the youngest of the family, for the mother had no more children. This goes for something.
Then, when she had once got over her repugnance to adopting him, he did do much to heal the old grief, and to fill the empty place in her heart as well as in the cradle.
He was a frail, fretful little creature, with a very red face just fading into yellow, about as much golden down on his little pate as would furnish a moth with plumage, and eyes like sloe-berries. It was fortunate rather than otherwise that he was so ailing for some weeks that the good wife’s anxieties came over again, and, in the triumph of being this time successful, much of the bitterness of the old loss passed away.
In a month’s time he looked healthy, if not absolutely handsome. The windmiller’s wife, indeed, protested that he was lovely, and she never wearied of marvelling at the unnatural conduct of those who had found it in their hearts to intrust so sweet a child to the care of strangers; though it must be confessed that nothing would have pleased her less than the arrival of two doting and conscientious parents to reclaim him.