“Very much,” said Samuel.
“I think of things like that when I listen to Friedrich. I've a picture of Sir Galahad—he's very beautiful, and he stands at his horse's head with a sword in his hand. I used to dream that somebody like that might come and carry me off to a place where there aren't any mills. But I guess it's no use any more.”
“Why not?” asked the other.
“It's too late. There is something the matter with me. I never say anything, because it would make mother unhappy; but I'm always tired now, and every day I have a headache. And I'm so very sleepy, and yet when I lie down I can't sleep—I keep hearing the mill.” “Oh!” cried Samuel involuntarily.
“I don't mind it so much,” said the child. “There's no help, so what's the use. It's only when I hear Friedrich play—then I get all stirred up.”
They walked on for a while again.
“He's very unhappy,” she said finally.
“I suppose so,” replied Samuel. “Tell me,” he asked suddenly. “Isn't there some other work that you could do?”
“What? I'm not strong enough for hard work. And where could I make three dollars a week?”
“Is that what they pay you?”