Peter did not know what to say, he was so much taken aback.
“When I was a little boy,” said the miller, “I was just like you, and couldn’t keep away from a mill-wheel if there was one within twenty miles. ‘When I’m a man,’ said I, ‘it’s a miller I’ll be.’ And a miller I am.”
But little Peter was still too much startled to understand friendliness. He pointed to the cottage over the road.
“You won’t tell grandmother we came here?” he asked, his eyes filling with tears.
“Not I,” said the miller.
“She would beat him if you did,” remarked Janet.
“That’s bad,” observed the miller, pushing his hat farther back. “I had a grandmother, too, when I was a little lad; she had a great cap and horn spectacles.”
“And did she beat you?” said Peter, gaining courage.
“Not she!” exclaimed the miller. “But she used to comfort me if anyone else did. Such fine tales she used to tell me, too—some out of a book and some out of her head! I’ve got the book in the house now.”
Little Peter loved stories more than anything in the world, and every moment he was growing less afraid of the miller.