"I am strong enough, I think," said she.
"A sack of flour is a heavy thing for man to lift by himself," remarked the miller, and with that he passed through the door and left her alone.
Then she cleared the table, put the pie—or what was left—in the larder, set the room in order, refilled the pipe, stood the jug handy by the cask, and, with a look of great satisfaction on her face, tripped out to where her horse was, mounted and rode away.
The next week—and the interval had seemed long to her, and no less long to the Miller of Hofbau—she came again, and so the week after; and in the week following that she came twice; and on the second of these two days, after dinner, the miller did not go off to his sacks, but he followed her out of the house, pipe in hand, when she went to mount her horse, and as she was about to mount, he said:
"Indeed you're a handy wench."
"You say much of my hands, but nothing of my face," remarked Princess Osra.
"Of your face?" repeated the miller in some surprise. "What should I say of your face?"
"Well, is it not a comely face?" said Osra, turning towards him that he might be better able to answer her question.
The miller regarded her for some minutes, then a slow smile spread on his lips.
"Oh, aye, it is well enough," said he. Then he laid a floury finger on her arm as he continued: "If you come next week—why, it is but half a mile to church! I'll have the cart ready and bid the priest be there. What's your name?" For he had not hitherto asked Osra's name.