“An awfu’ visitation,” he muttered to himself,--“a truly awfu’ visitation on a Christmas morning;” and he began to wonder what he had ever done to deserve it. He went over his whole life,--honest man, it had been anything but a chequered or eventful one,--and finally came to the conclusion that it must be a judgment on him for forsaking his early love.
“Poor lonely Nannie!” he sighed, as he dragged himself wearily away to begin his work.
The miller was a steady, sober man, but he did feel glad when visitors began to arrive at the mill, and being Christmas morning, bring a bottle with them. But he could not find exhilaration in the whisky,--no, nor consolation either. He simply could not get warm, only his face seemed to glow; and there was a weight at his heart, as if he had swallowed one of his own millstones. When at last the day wore over, and he found himself at home, he thought he had never felt so tired in his life before. His decent old body of a housekeeper marked how ill he looked, and insisted on putting him to bed at once, with a bottle of hot water, an extra blanket, and a basin of gruel.
Next day the miller was in a raging fever, and for many weeks he seemed only hovering between life and death. Mrs. Fowler, as his housekeeper was called, could not have been more kind to him if he had been her own son. But one day she said to herself, as she looked upon his poor worn face, “I see I canna cure him, and the man will die if assistance doesna come soon. I’ll try it,--I’ll try it.”
What the trying it had reference to we shall soon see. Mrs. Fowler put on her Sunday’s gown and bonnet, put on her scarlet shawl and her sable boa, and telling the miller she would soon return, went out into the keen January air, and took her way to the bridge that spanned the rapid Don. For the good lady was far too old to try the ford, or climb the rocks, or trust herself in the dark little footpath, that led through the forest to Nannie’s house. She arrived there in good time for all that.
Nannie was spinning, but strange to say, she was always glad to see Mrs. Fowler. So she put aside the reel and bustled about to get tea ready.
“And is he getting any better?” asked Nannie at length, referring to the miller. The question was asked in seemingly a half-careless tone, but none knew but herself, how her heart was beating all the while.