“I will,” said she.
And so they drove home together when the sun was getting low.
“Peter,” said the miller, “don’t you think it would be a good plan if I married Janet, and you were to come and live with me and learn to be a miller too? You should have cake for tea every other day, and a pair of fine blue trousers, and a whipping-top of your own, and a kite, and I’d tell you a new story every Sunday afternoon.”
Peter’s eyes grew round.
“And should I be all white with flour like your man?”
“From head to foot,” said the miller.
“Hooray! hooray! hooray!” shrieked little Peter, jumping about in the cart.
“Take care, take care,” cried Janet, “or you will make the horse run away.”
“That settles it,” observed the miller. “We’ll be married next week.”
And so they were.