"Good morrow, maids."
"Good morrow, master."
"Has my daughter stopped weeping yet?"
"No, master," said Joyce, "but I begin to think that she will before long."
"A little longer will be too long," moaned Gillman, "for my purse is running dry with these droughty times, and I shall have to mortgage the farm to buy me ale, since I am foiled of both water and milk. Who would have daughters when he might have sons? Gillian!" he cried, "when will ye learn that old heads are wiser than young ones?"
But Gillian paid no more attention to him than to the cawing rooks in the elms in the oatfield.
"Take your bread, maids," said Gillman, "and heaven send us grace to-morrow."
"Just an instant, master," said Joyce. "I would like to know if Blossom my Shorthorn is well?"
"As well as a child without its mother, maid, though Michael has turned nurse to her. But she seems sworn to hold back her milk till you come again. Rack and ruin, nothing but rack and ruin!"
And off he went.