Swiftly the milkmaids hustled Martin into the russet tree, and
concealed him at the very moment when the Farmer was come to the
peephole, filling it with his round red face and broad gray fringe
of whiskers, like the winter sun on a sky that is going to snow.

"Good morrow, maids," quoth old Gillman.

"Good morrow, master," said they.

"Is my daughter come to her mind yet?"

"No, master," said little Joan, "but I begin to have hopes that she
may."

"If she do not," groaned Gillman, "I know not what will happen to
the farmstead. For it is six months now since I tasted water, and
how can a man follow his business who is fuddled day and night with
Barley Wine? Life is full of hardships, of which daughters are the
greatest. Gillian!" he cried, "when will ye come into your senses
and out of the Well-House?"

But Gillian took no more heed of him than of the quacking of the
drake on the duckpond.

"Well, here is your bread," said Gillman, and he thrust a basket
with seven loaves in it through the gap. "And may to-morrow bring
better tidings."

"One moment, dear master," entreated little Joan. "Tell me, please,
how Nancy my Jersey fares."