Tears came into the eyes of Norah. The carpenter was a popular man in Colme; every one knew so well the portly form, the good-humored, self-complacent smile, the loud voice, the jovial chuckle of Ben, it was difficult to associate with him any idea of sickness or of death. But Bell saw that his news had saddened his young companion, and as his light cart rapidly wheeled round a corner of the road, he as rapidly turned the current of conversation.
"You've chosen a pleasant time of the year for your visit to the country, Norah. How long are you likely to stay with your uncle?"
"I don't know; I can't say,—I suppose till I get another place," answered the girl.
"Ah, you've tired of London, after a village life; I always thought that you would. Noise, bustle, and bother! Talk of the clack of my mill-wheel,—why, in London there are thousands of wheels perpetually going, and streams of people perpetually flowing; there's something always on the grind. I like you the better for getting away as fast as you possibly can from London."
"I'd have stopped there if I could," said the young servant in a scarcely audible voice.
"Then why did you give warning?" asked the miller.
"I did not give warning," replied poor Norah, blushing and hanging down her head; "my mistress gave warning to me."
"There's simple truth, anyways," said the miller, a grim smile rising to his lips. "You are just like your sailor uncle: Franks is his name, and frank's his nature. I don't believe he ever told an untruth in his life."
Norah turned her head, and gazed sadly on the meadows and groves, clad in spring's fresh green, by which she was rapidly passing; but her thoughts did not follow her eyes. The miller's remark had awakened a train of painful reflections.