the mill stood on the west bank of back creek: the big water-wheel hung almost over the stream itself. the creek ran noisily along over a rough stone bottom which here and there churned the dark water into foam. for the most part it was wide and shallow, though there were deep holes between the ledges. the dam, lying in the green meadows above the mill, was fed by springs, and a race conveyed the water to the big wooden wheel.

in the second storey of the mill flour and unground grain were stored; there it was safe in times of high water. the “miller’s room,” on the first floor, was a recognized feature of every mill in those days; the man in charge slept there and kept an eye on the property, even when no grinding was going on at night. henry colbert had no foreman. he himself occupied the room, using it both as sleeping-chamber and office. years ago he spent the night at the mill only in times of night grinding or high water. but latterly the mill room had become more and more the place where he actually lived.

the mill room was all that was left of the original building which stood there in revolutionary times. the old chimney was still sound, and the miller used the slate-paved fireplace in cold weather. the floor was bare; old boards, very wide, ax-hewn from great trees before the day of sawmills. there was no ceiling but the floor of the storeroom above, with its heavy, ax-dressed crossbeams. this wooden ceiling, its beams, and the wooden walls of the room were freshly whitewashed every spring. the miller’s furniture was whitewashed, so to speak, day by day, by the flour-dust which sifted down from overhead, and through every crack and crevice in the doors and walls. each morning till’s nancy swept and dusted the flour away.

here the miller had arranged everything to his own liking. the square windows were furnished with paper blinds, to keep out the four-o’clock summer dawn if he had been up late the night before. his narrow bed had been made of chestnut wood by mr. whitford, the neighbourhood carpenter and cabinet-maker, and it was a good piece of work. bed-cords, hitched about neat knobs, took the place of springs. on the tightly drawn cords lay the mattress; a feather “tick” in winter, a corn-shuck one in summer. his “secretary” was also of chestnut. (whitford liked to work in that wood.) it was both writing-desk and bookcase. above the desk four shelves held ledgers and account books, — and a curious assortment of other books as well. the high chest of drawers at which the miller shaved stood between the two west windows, looking toward the house, and his small wood-framed looking-glass hung from a nail driven in the plank wall behind. at seven o’clock every morning little zach ran down from the house with the master’s shaving water in a steaming iron teakettle.

when henry colbert first took over the mill, his silent unconvivial nature was against him. a miller was expected to be jovial; to produce whisky, or at least applejack, when a man made a small payment on a long account. in time his neighbours found that though the new miller was stingy of speech, he was not tight with his purse-strings.

one rainy march day at about four o’clock in the afternoon (in virginia one said four o’clock in the “evening”) the miller was sitting at his secretary, going through his ledger. his purpose was to check off the names of debtors to whom he would not, under any circumstance, extend further credit. he found so many of these names already checked once, and even twice, that after frowning over his accounts for a long while, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his chin. when people were so poor, what was a christian man to do? they were poor because they were lazy and shiftless, — or, at best, bad managers. well, he couldn’t make folks over, he guessed. and they had to eat. while he sat thinking, sampson, his head mill-hand, appeared at the door, which was often left ajar in the daytime.

“mr. henry, little zach jist run down from de house sayin’ de mistress would like you to come up, if you ain’t too busy.”

the miller closed his ledger, glad to escape. “anything amiss, sampson?”

“no, sah, i don’t reckon so. zach, he said she was waitin’ in de parlour.”

colbert changed his old leather jacket for a black coat, brushed the flour-dust off his broad hat, and walked up through the cold spring drizzle which was making the grass green.

he found his wife dressed for the afternoon, with a lace cap on her head and her rings on her fingers, having her tea by the fire. (when she heard him open the front door she poured his cup, smuggling in a good tot of jamaica rum, since he didn’t take cream.) before he sat down, he took up a plate of toasted biscuit from the hearth and offered it to his wife. he drank his tea in a few swallows, though it was very hot.

“thank you, sapphy. that takes the chill out of a body’s bones. it does get damp down there at the mill. could you spare me another cup?”

munching his biscuit, he watched her pour the tea. when she reached down for a small red cruet, well concealed on the lower deck of the table, he laughed and rubbed his hands together. “that’s why it tastes so good! i must try to get up here oftener when you’re having your tea. but it’s just about this time of day the farmers come in. the good ones are at work all morning, and the poor sticks never get around to anything at all till the day’s ‘most gone.”

“i’m sure the master would always be very welcome company in the evenings,” replied mrs. colbert, lifting her eyebrows, whether archly or ironically it would be hard to say.

“don’t you put on with me, sapphy.” he reached down to the hearth for another biscuit. “you’re the master here, and i’m the miller. and that’s how i like it to be.”

his wife looked at him with an indulgent smile, and shook her head. she stirred her tea gently for a few moments in silence. a log fell apart in the fire and shot up tall flames; the miller put the ends together with the tongs. “henry,” she said suddenly,” do you realize it’s getting on towards easter?”

“and you haven’t set out yet,” he added. “have you given up going for this year?”

“no, i wouldn’t disappoint sister sarah. but jezebel’s been so low. i shouldn’t like to be away from home when it happened. i thought she would have gone before this.”

colbert glanced up in surprise. “well, you needn’t put yourself out on jezebel’s account. she may hang on till harvest. it seems like life won’t let go of her.”

“if you feel that way, what’s to hinder my going this friday? then i would have all holy week with sarah, and if i get no bad news from home i might stay a week longer. sarah always entertains after easter, you know, and i would meet my old friends.”

“i can see no objection. the roads ought to be good, if this drizzle don’t set into a hard rain. while you’re in town you might have the carriage painted. it needs it.”

“that’s a good idea. and this year i think i shall take nancy along instead of till. it would smarten her up, to see how people do things in town.”

he considered a moment. “very well, if you leave till to look after my place down there. don’t try any more bluebell on me!”

his wife replied with her most ladylike laugh, a flash of fun in it. “poor bluebell! is she never to have a chance to learn? why are you so set against her?”

“i can’t abide her, or anything about her. if there is one nigger on the place i could thrash with my own hands, it’s that bluebell!”

the mistress threw up her hands; this time she laughed so heartily that the rings on her fingers glittered. it was a treat to hear her husband break out like this.

“well, henry,” as she wiped her eyes with a tiny handkerchief, “i will own to you that if it wasn’t for lizzie’s feelings, i’d send that lazy girl off the place tomorrow. i’d give her away! but we’ve got the only good cook west of winchester, and so we have to have bluebell. lizzie would always be in the sulks, and when a cook is out of temper she can spoil every dish, just by a turn of the hand. we would never sit down to a good dinner again. besides, your baptists would miss lizzie and bluebell in the hymns. and they are always being sent for to sing at funerals. i like to hear them myself, of a summer night.”

the miller rose, put another log on the fire, and, by way of an attention, righted the clumsy wheel-chair a little. he took his wife’s plump hand and patted it. “thank you for having me up, sapphy. it’s done me good. the mill room gets very damp between seasons, and i forget to have tap make a fire. you might send for me a little oftener.” he turned up his coat-collar and reached for his hat, but his wife interfered.

“go and get your shawl out of the hall press. don’t go back to the mill and sit in a damp coat. it’s folly to expose yourself. you ought to have a fire every day this weather.”

he went into the hall and returned with a great shawl of fine scotch wool. it had once been dark green, but time and weather had put a dull gold cast into it. he folded it three-cornered, so that it covered his coat, and went out into the drizzle. military men and prosperous townsmen wore overcoats, but farmers and countrymen wore heavy shawls, fastened with a large shawl-pin.

sapphira sat looking out at the dripping trees and the thick amethyst clouds which hung low over the mill and blurred the tall cedars across the creek. she smiled faintly; it occurred to her that when they were talking about bluebell, both she and henry had been thinking all the while about nancy. how much, she wondered, did each wish to conceal from the other?

such speculations were mildly amusing for a woman who did not read a great deal, and who had to sit in a chair all day.

she had given little time to reflection in the years when she was having her children and bringing them up. even after they were married and gone, the management of the place had kept her busy. every year there was the gardening and planting, butchering time and meat-curing. summer meant preserving and jelly-making, the drying of cherries and currants and sweet corn and sliced apples for winter. in those days she often rode her mare to winchester of a saturday to be there for the sunday service. it was because she had been so energetic, and such a good manager, that even from an invalid’s chair she was still able to keep her servants well in hand.