“To be sewer there’s Mitchell Mill,” breathed Jim, heavily, “’at’s been goin’ to wreck an’ ruin this monny a year for want o’ somebdy to run it. An’ Diggle Brook’s as good a run o’ watter as ivver turned a wheel. But th’ varry thowt on it ma’es mi yead turn. Has it just popped into thi yead, Ruth, or hast ta been brewin’ this new brew on th’ quiet?”
“That’s my business,” Ruth made reply.
“Main point is, is it a good brew? What do you say, father?”
“I say that it’s nearly midnight, and we’ll all go to bed and sleep on it. But first let us take the matter to the Lord in prayer.”
And we all knelt, and my father read the “Evening Portion” and then poured forth a long and fervent prayer for guidance and wisdom in this momentous crisis of our lives.
Jim had to be up next morning long before daybreak that he might be at his work when the shuttle was drawn and the big water-wheel, with many a creak and groan, began to turn lazily on its axle and send its power pulsing through the mill. I got up with him; for it was high time I gave up my invalid ways and set my thoughts towards the work that lay before me. Early as we were, Miriam and Ruth were afoot before us; and a bright fire burned in the kitchen grate, and the porridge steamed on the table, and there was the pleasing sizzle of ham frying in a pan, and the fragrance of coffee piping hot—the bean was at 3/6 a pound in those days—and home-made bread, white, and close, and flaky, and butter pats of Ruth’s own deft making.
“Aw’ve been thinkin’ ovver what yo’ said last neet, Ruth, about Mitchell Mill,” said Jim with his mouth full.
“It’s manners to swallow your food before trying to talk, and, besides, I never mentioned Mitchell Mill. It was you.”
“It’s th’ same thing,” said Jim.
“Oh! is it? Well, what about it?”