Then the old miller turned his face to the wall and died. And they buried him beneath the whispering pines. And the daughter said: “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?” “Let me help you bear it,” said he. Then she looked at him and smiled through her tears.
After the miller died the mother was very lonely, and she often said that she would like to go to him. Presently she, too, sickened. Every day she grew worse, and finally she died and was laid to rest beneath the spreading pines beside her man.
After the funeral they sat before the fireplace. She was crying and his eyes were wet. “What can I do?” said she, “I have no one to love me and care for me.” “Yes you have,” said he, “I promised your father I would take care of you, and I love you very much. It will not be hard work for me to love you and care for you.”
“Oh,” said she, “I am so glad you love me, I have loved you for a long time.” Then she kissed him, shyly.
In a few days they were married. She cared for the house and he ran the mill. She is a good housewife and sings as she works and he is a good miller and sings as he runs the mill. They often kiss. I have noticed that when he kisses her he grows younger but as she kisses him she grows older. They grow happier every day.
Mont L’Hery
To Angelo Catto, Archbishop of Vienna, from Philip de Comines, Lord of Argenton:—
In the Memoirs which I have written, my good Lord Archbishop, at your desire, I have spoken of an occurrence of little importance, it may appear, and which was of small note among the great and mighty events which took place then and thereafter. None the less, though I have there written but a few words, (as thinking the relation of my own small affairs of little value) matters of great import to me and mine transpired which I shall here set forth, that you may, if you see fit, relate them to my dear daughter, Joan, when I am no more.