She passed down the bank into the house, then through the large living-room, speckless in its thrifty order, into a longer room that joined house to mill. She glanced at the tall clock that stood beside the door. “Mercy me!” she cried, “it's time my own work was done. But I'll just step in and see—” She opened the door leading to the mill and stood silent. A neat little man with cheery, rosy face, clean-shaven, and with a mass of curly hair tinged with grey hanging about his forehead, was seated upon a chair tipped back against the wall, playing a violin with great vigour and unmistakable delight.
“The mill's a-workin', mother,” he cried without stopping his flying fingers, “and I'm keepin' my eye upon her.”
She shook her head reproachfully at her husband. “Ay, the mill is workin' indeed, but it's not of the mill you're thinking.”
“Of what then?” he cried cheerily, still playing.
“It is of that raising and of the dancing, I'll be bound you.”
“Wrong, mother,” replied the little man exultant. “Sure you're wrong. Listen to this. What is it now?”
“Nonsense,” cried the woman, “how do I know?”
“But listen, Elsie, darlin',” he cried, dropping into his Irish brogue. “Don't you mind—” and on he played for a few minutes. “Now you mind, don't you?”
“Of course, I mind, 'The Lass o' Gowrie.' But what of it?” she cried, heroically struggling to maintain her stern appearance.
But even as she spoke her face, so amazing in its power of swiftly changing expression, took on a softer look.