'Now that's what I like,' he remarked; 'up to anything, eh? You don't seem so much used up as the rest on 'em. Even the little one talked herself to sleep at last!'
'No--I haven't,' said the man of flour--'I always light my pipe with a burning glass. Won't that serve your turn? So there she sits, asleep, and my Phoebe sits and looks at her.'
'I've something else that will serve my turn,' said the hunter applying to his gun. 'But stay--I do not care to see any more fire to-day than is necessary.'--And drawing his work off to a safe place, he went on to kindle tinder and make a nice little fire.--'Haven't you learned how to make bread yet, Mr. Miller?'
'Not a bit!' said he laughing. 'And when you've got a wife and four daughters you won't do much fancy cookig neither, I guess. But there's Phoebe--'
'A mistake, Mr. Miller,' said the fancy cook. 'Best always to be independent of your wife--and of everything else.'
And impaling his bird on a sharp splinter he stuck it up before the fire, to the great interest and amusement of the miller. Another spectator also wandered out there, and she was presently sent back to the mill.
'Miss Hazel,' said Mrs. Saddler, coming to the 'divan' where the young lady and her guardian were both sitting,--'Mr. Rollo says, ma'am, are you ready for him to come in?'
'If you please, sir, I am sure I don't know what I mean,--but that's a very strange gentleman, Miss Kennedy. There he's gone and shot a robin--at least, I suppose it was him for I don't know who else should have done it-- and his gun's standing by-- and then he's gone and picked it ma'am--picked the feathers off, and they 're lyin' all round; and then he washed it in the lake, and he was hard to suit, for he walked a good way up the lake before he found a place where he _would_ wash it; and now he's made a fire and stuck up the bird and roasted it; and why he didn't get me or Miss Miller to do it I don't comprehend. And he's got plates and things, ma'am, and salt, ma'am, and bread; and that's what _he_ means, sir; and he want's to know if you're ready. The bird's all done.'
Wych Hazel looked anything but ready. She was very young in the world's ways, very new to her own popularity, and somehow Mrs. Saddler's story touched her sensitiveness. The shy, shrinking colour and look told of what at six years old would have made her hide her face under her mother's apron. No such refuge being at hand, however, and she obliged to face the world for herself, as soon as she had despatched a very dignified message to Mr. Rollo, the young lady's feeling sought relief in irritation.