Groaning many a regretful groan, the water-miller loaded his fine two-wheeled scarlet cart with sacks of golden grain, and carried it to the windmill door. It was a warm night. The water-miller unloaded the sacks, mopped his brow with a red bandanna handkerchief, and sighed.
What a fool he had been not to play fair! What a fool to send away his son!
When the water-miller had driven away, the triumphant wind-miller took a great iron lantern, and went down to see the grain. For a moment or two he stood motionless, chuckling at his unexpected victory. Presently he called to Cecily to gather all the lights and candles she could find, and place them round about.
And now, toiling in a great blaze of candlelight, the wind-miller slowly and carefully sifted out for himself the better half of the wonderful grain. The remaining half—which was good enough, but full of husks and dust—he set apart for his rival.
The dawn was breaking as he finished the task. Some of the candles were burned out, and the lanterns were smoke-begrimed and dim. Wearily rubbing the grain-dust from his eyes, the wind-miller trudged up the circular stair and tumbled into bed. He would grind the grain into flour as soon as he woke in the morn.
And on that same still, autumn dawn young Valentine came out of the fairy wood.
When the wind-miller woke, he woke with a start, for he had slept late, and the sun was high. How warm and misty-moisty it was! Good heavens—there wasn’t a breath of wind!
A ship drifted becalmed upon the glassy sea; a blue haze of wavy summer heat lay upon the meadows, and over the wooded hills hung a motionless mass of bluish cloud with a rim of silvery white. There was not even air enough to stir a dead leaf hanging by a thread.
In and out of the door of the mill, like one distracted ran the miller; he stood upon the balcony and stared about at the sky, the greeny-leaden sea, and the helpless ship; he lifted a moistened finger to the air.
Oh, for a wind!