Suddenly the laughter came to an abrupt end, as though it were cut in twain with a sharp knife. The girl continued for a few seconds shrieking and rapping her heels on the floor, her head thrown back; then she clearly became aware of the fact that something unusual had occurred. She looked up in surprise at the men on the settee, followed the direction of their eyes, and saw standing at the porch door a man of medium stature, wearing a long riding cloak and carrying a book in one hand. The doorway framed him. The dimness of the shadowy eventide made a background for his head, the candle which Susan had lighted in the room shone upon his face, revealing the thin, refined features of a man who was no longer young. His face was sweetness made visible—eyes that looked in brotherly trustfulness into the eyes of others, and that, consequently, drew trust from others—illimitable trust.
The girl stared at the stranger who had appeared in the doorway with such suddenness; and she saw what manner of man he was. There was an expression of mild surprise on his face while he looked at her, the central figure in the room; but she saw that there was a gentle smile about his eyes.
“I hope that I am not an intruder upon your gaiety,” said the stranger. “I knocked twice at the door, and then, hearing the shrieks of distress, I ventured to enter. I hoped to be of some assistance—shrieks mixed with laughter—well, I have stopped both.”
The miller was on his feet in a moment.
“Foolery, sir, girl's foolery all!” he said, going towards the stranger. “Pray, enter, if you can be persuaded that you are not entering a Bedlam mad-house.”
“Nay, sir,” said the newcomer. “'Twould be foolish to condemn simply because I do not understand. I am a stranger to this county of England; I have had no chance of becoming familiar with your pastimes. Dear child, forgive me if I broke in upon your merriment,” he added, turning to Nelly; “Good sir,”—he was now facing the miller—“I have ridden close upon thirty miles to-day—the last four in the want of a shoe; my horse must have cast it in the quagmire between the low hills. Yours was the first light that I saw—I was in hopes that it came from a blacksmith's forge.”
The miller laughed.
“'Tis better than that, good sir,” said he. “The truth is that the smith of these parts is a fellow not to be trusted by travellers: his forge is black tonight, unless his apprentices are better men than he. He is a huge eater of salmon and divers dainties, and he will drink as much as a mugful of cider before the night is past.”
“But he is a fellow that is ready to sacrifice a cut of salmon and a gallon of cider to earn a sixpence for a shoe, sir,” said Hal Holmes, rising from the settee and giving himself a shake. “In short, sir, I be Holmes, the smith, whose lewd character has been notified to your honour, and if you trust me with your nag, I'll promise you to fit a shoe on him within the half-hour.”
The stranger looked from the smith to the miller, and back again to the smith, and his smile broadened.