So here they were on this bright, sunny spring morning at work outside and in.
Antonio was walking about rubbing his hands and evidently enjoying the sight, but giving a word of command or a word of encouragement wherever it was required.
“Ah! here you are, dearie,” he said to our boy, “and here’s old pussy. I’m feeling just real cheery this morning; but look, Barclay boy, how the light breeze ruffles the sea, and how the sunshine dances and glitters on the ripples, just for all the world as if unseen hands were sowing millions and millions of diamonds on it!
“But,” he continued, “where is Davie Drake? Oh, we must see Davie.”
“Yes,” said Barclay, laughing, “I’ll bring him. But he will be from home for a week.”
The boy and Antonio now had a peep inside. There was so much dust, however, that little could be seen.
Men were cleaning down the walls, and, I fear, breaking up the homes of many a lusty spider that had been in possession of the lower gallery for many years, till they had come to look upon the place as their very own.
I may mention that all the machinery had long since been removed from the mill, only the sails had been left outside, or rather the yardarms that used to support these sails.
. . . . . .
Antonio went away to the nearest big town shortly after this to purchase furniture and fixings, and Barclay Stuart went with him. Not pussy this time, though.