said, "We've had some sore times, missus, of late, but good luck
have come our way to-night."

"And how then, maester?" faltered his wife.

"That child," said the windmiller, turning his broad thumb
expressively towards the inner room, "belongs to folk that want to
get a home for un, and can afford to pay for un, too. And the place
being healthy and out of the way, and having heard of our trouble,
and you just bereaved of a little un" -

"No! no! no!" shrieked the poor mother, who now understood all. "I
COULDN'T, maester, 'tis unpossible, I could NOT. Oh dear! oh dear!
isn't it bad enough to lose the sweetest child that ever saw light,
without taking in an outcast to fill that dear angel's place? Oh
dear! oh dear!"

"And we behindhand in more quarters than one," continued the miller,
prudently ignoring his wife's tears and remonstrances, "and a dear
season coming on, and an uncertain trade that keeps a man idle by
days together, and here's ten shillings a week dropped into our
laps, so to speak. Ten shillings a week--regular and sartin. No
less now, and no more hereafter, the governor said. Them were his
words."

"What's ten shilling a week to me, and my child dead and gone?"
moaned the mother, in reply.

"WHAT'S TEN SHILLINGS A WEEK TO YOU?" cried the windmiller, who was
fairly exasperated, in tones so loud that they were audible in the