"We'd like you to settle down," continued the old man. "There's money enough—the Lord has blessed me with prosperity. You can take a wife, Peter, and bring up a family. I'd like to see a grandson on my knees before I die, and know that the old mill-house will go down to another John Fleming—a sober, God-fearing man I hope he'll be, with no book-learning to spoil his appetite for common labour. Not that I'm blaming you, lad. I couldn't have wished for a better son—in that the Lord has blessed me far beyond my deserts."
Peter grasped his father's hand and shook it without a word. The old man laughed, and slapped him on the back, then snorted, as though tears had got into his throat.
"I always have a cough when the winter comes," he said, tapping his chest.
"So you want me to get married," remarked Peter, after a while. "That's a matter for deep reflection."
"I've always wished for a daughter," replied his mother. "I cried when you were born, but thy dadda was pleased."
"There's a nice lass would just do for you, lad," said the miller, winking at his son. "She's a bonny lass with no silly ways about her. Your mother and me's kind o' fond o' her already. She looks us up whiles, and twists as purty a bow as you could wish to see for your mother's caps and bonnets."
"I guess her name," said Peter.
"It begins with L," replied the old man.
Peter got up and stretched himself.
"I'm going for a walk," he said, "it's a fine moonlight night."