Filling the ranks.
As Mr Ewring stood looking out, he saw somebody coming up from the gate towards the mill—a girl, who walked slowly, as if she felt very hot or very tired. The day was warm, but not oppressively so; and he watched her coming languidly up the road, till he saw that it was Amy Clere. What could she want at the mill? Mr Ewring waited to see.
“Good den, Mistress Amy,” said he, as she came nearer.
Amy looked up as if it startled her to be addressed.
“Good den, Master Ewring. Father’s sending some corn to be ground, and he desired you to know the last was ground a bit too fine for his liking: would you take the pains to have it coarser ground, an’ it please you?”
“I will see to it, Mistress Amy. A fine even, methinks?”
“Ay, right fair,” replied Amy in that manner which shows that the speaker’s thoughts are away elsewhere. But she did not offer to go; she lingered about the mill-door, in the style of one who has something to say which she is puzzled or unwilling to bring out.
“You seem weary,” said Mr Ewring, kindly; “pray you, sit and rest you a space in the porch.”
Amy took the seat suggested at once.
“Master Clere is well, I trust?—and Mistress Clere likewise?”