"That's so, lad, that's so," assented Jose Binns; "he's nobbut poorly like, is th' pracher, or he'd niver gie us such pap sermons as that'n we hed yester morn. Oh, ay, he'd better tak a rest, an' that's plain to ony man 'at can see to th' end on his nose."
But Greta's comments on the preacher were of a different sort. "He's such a woman, father," she said to Miller Rotherson one day. It was her usual remark when Gabriel had particularly angered her.
"Don't be too sure, lass. I've no call to fight his battles, seeing how often he's bothered and bothered me about my soul—but this I'll say for Gabriel Hirst: he's no woman at the heart of him. Greta, I'd think shame if I was you to set so much store by the outside."
"I don't like an apple with an ugly rind, however good it be inside," said Greta, crossly.
"And there you make your mistake, as women-folk mostly do. Give me the ugliest-looking apple you can find, and I'll know it's worth eating."
"But Gabriel isn't ugly," flashed the girl, perversely.
The miller laid down his pipe, and looked quizzically at his daughter.
"Has he snared thy heart, lass, this preacher fellow?"
Greta tossed her head, got half-way through a denial, and ended with a storm of sobs.
"There, there, Greta, don't cry," murmured Miller Rotherson, as she came to his knee and buried her head out of sight. "Supposing he is too blind, this Gabriel Hirst, to know a good thing when he sees it—there are other men in the world."