That was the only question which occasionally made Miriam knit her brows. What would Michael have when old Tobias died? The mill, the mill-house, the garden and orchard around it, two or three acres of land beside, and the fishing rights of the river from Ashdale Bridge to Brinford Meadows belonged absolutely to Tobias, who had bought the freehold of this desirable property when he purchased the good-will of the business twenty years before. He had only two sons to succeed to whatever he left—Michael and Stephen. Michael was now general superintendent, manager, traveller, a hard indefatigable worker, who was as ready to give a hand with the grain and the flour as to write the letters and keep the books. Stephen, on the other hand, was a loafer. He was fonder of the village inn than of the mill, and of going off to race meetings or cricket matches than of attending to business. He was also somewhat given to conviviality, which often degenerated into intemperance, and he had lately married the publican's daughter, a showy, flaunting wench whom Miriam thoroughly detested. Considering the difference that existed between the two brothers, it seemed to Miriam that it would be grossly unfair to share things equally between them, and more than once she had said so to Michael. But Michael always shook his head.
"Share and share alike," he said. "I ask no fairer, my lass."
"Then," she answered, "if it's like that, you must try to buy Stephen out, for he'll never do any good."
"Ah, that's more like it!" said Michael.
Miriam was thinking of these things as she plunged her strong arms into the frothing soapsuds and listened to her baby cooing under the apple-trees. She had heard from a neighbour only the night before of some escapade in which Stephen had been mixed up, and her informant had added significantly that it was easy to see where Stephen's share of old Toby's money would go when he got the handling of it. Miriam resolved that when Michael, who was away on business in another part of the country, came home she would once more speak to him about coming to an understanding with his brother. She was not the sort of woman to see a flourishing business endangered, and she never forgot that she was the mother of Michael's first-born. Some day, perhaps, she might see him master of the mill.
Save for the murmur of the river flowing at the edge of the garden beneath overhanging alders and willows, and the perpetual humming of the insects in tree and bush, the morning was very still and languorous, and sounds of a louder sort travelled far. And Miriam was suddenly aware of the clap-clap-clap of human, stoutly-shod feet flying down the narrow lane which ran by the side of the orchard. Something in the sound betokened trouble—she was already drying her hands and arms on her rough apron when the wicket-gate was flung open and a girl, red-faced, panting, burst in beneath the pink and white of the fruit-trees.
"What is it, Eliza Kate?" demanded Miriam.
The girl pressed her hand to her side.
"It's—th'—owd—maister!" she panted. "Margaret Burton thinks he's bad—a stroke. An' will you please to go quick."
"Look to the child," said Miriam, without a glance at him herself. "And bring him back with you."