"Well, Greta, lass, have you paddled to your heart's content?" cried the old man, as his daughter came in sight.
"Yes, father—and a little more. Gabriel Hirst came down the hillside before I had finished, and he would stop to talk. I had to sit on a log with my legs tucked up under me, and I nearly got cramp before I rid myself of him."
The miller chuckled quietly to his churchwarden.
"He'd never have noticed, child, so you might have spared yourself the trouble. Was he as sour as ever?"
Greta turned her head to watch the peacock butterfly on the wall. Her dimpled cheeks grew rosy.
"Not quite, father. He wanted to know if he could come to see us."
"Lass, lass, I wish folks would let a man's soul alone. What did you say?" groaned the miller.
"That we were proof against conversion, and sick of it. That he might come as a friend if he cared to, and we'd give him a hearty welcome."
"Good, good!" muttered the old man, approvingly. "But I doubt him, Greta; he'll never be able to keep his tongue off that subject for long."