[Illustration: Mouse at cobweb ladder]
"What is the language?" he asked the mouse.
"The language of the eyes," answered the mouse.
"Read it to me," said the miller.
And the mouse read: "Tom, I am sorry—I am lonely; my husband and parents are dead. Tom, have you forgotten the old days?"
"It must be Anne's eyes which say this," cried the miller. "Yes, I might have read it all along."
Then the filmy ladder disappeared, and in the green light rose the little garden where the spring flowers were growing now. Within the arbour where Tom had gone to sleep one night sat Anne, her hands engaged in knitting, her eyes looking far away.
"Mouse, what is she thinking?" asked the miller. "You seem to know everything."
"Her eyes are talking," said the mouse.
"And what do they say?"
"They say, 'The miller only pities me; he no longer loves me.'"
"Ah, the eyes are wrong," cried Tom. "I will go to her and tell her so."
"Not yet," said the mouse. "Wait."
And then among the flowers there appeared a little child, and the child spoke low to the flowers.
"Listen," said the mouse.
"Oh, flowers, I have no father," murmured the child.
"Stop," cried the miller, "I must go."
And as he said this the light went quite out, and in the dim starlight which shone through the window he saw the mouse nibbling a crust of bread near his elbow. But for this little rustling sound, and Dot's breathing, all was silent. Yet there were voices in the miller's heart which made themselves heard well enough. One was the voice of Hope, the other the voice of Love.
So next day, when the sun was setting, Tom put on his best clothes, and, taking Dot by the hand, walked towards Brooks's cottage. When they reached it, Anne's little child stood in the gateway.
"Little one," said Tom, stooping and kissing the child, "is mother in the garden?"
The child pointed to the arbor.
"Stay together, children," said the miller; and then he entered the arbor.
"What did I tell you?" said the mouse. The miller was in the old room at the mill for the last night.
"It matters little what you told me," said the miller—"you taught me so much."
Now from this time the mouse spoke no more to Tom, though he often saw the little brown creature. It is only to the lonely and sorrowful that mice and trees and clouds and wind talk much. And the miller was happy, for had not Anne consented to marry him, and was not the wedding-day no farther distant now than to-morrow?
Anne visited the mill with her husband a week later, and she said, "There are many mice here. Why don't you set traps for them?"
"I cannot do that," said the miller. "One mouse has taught me more than all the books I have read. The mice are welcome to what they take of the grain."
And Anne questioned no more. It was enough for her that she and Tom were together. So I suppose the little brown mouse, or at least its descendants, still live on unmolested at the mill.