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Miller’s face with so truthful, wondering a gaze that he was puzzled. "Can it be," thought he, "that I did not hear aright, that I was deceived? I will, at least, ask her how she spent that evening," so he said: "Fanny, do you remember where you were, or how you were occupied during the last evening of my stay at your father’s?"
It’s a great scheme which I proudly invented when I first went away to school and I recommend it to you if you—if you ever have a mother. How my ink does run away with me! Let me refer to your esteemed favor again! Ah! we have worked down to the bed-rock, or—in Hugh Miller’s colloquial phrasing—to the "old red sandstone," of the fact that you want Jack.
"And then," thought she, "she will recognize my handwriting, and curiosity will impel her to open the letter, after which she wouldn’t hesitate a moment to destroy it." The next moment Mrs. Carrington was rapping at the door of Mrs. Miller’s room. Kate opened it and was greatly surprised at beholding her visitor, who seldom came there. Mrs.
Quickly as possible she drove such unpleasant thoughts from her mind, and then tried to devise the best plan for managing Mrs. Carrington. "For Mr. Miller’s letter," said she, "I care nothing. It was written so long ago that he has ceased expecting an answer, but I well know Mrs. Carrington’s designs, and she will continue to write until she receives some reply.
With many tears and some laughing—for the remembrance of the exploit always excited her mirth—Fanny told a part of what we already know concerning Mr. Miller’s visit at her father’s the winter previous. She related the adventure of the sled ride, and said that the morning after she noticed a change in Mr. Miller’s manner toward her.
I’ll confess all to Marster George, for see, here’s another like the buried one." So saying, he held up Mrs. Carrington’s letter, on the envelope of which was Mr. Miller’s writing.
Finding the solitude of her own chamber rather irksome, she had sought Mrs. Miller’s room, where she was ever a welcome visitor. To Kate she had imparted a knowledge of the letter which she supposed Dr. Lacey had written. Mrs. Miller’s sympathy for her young friend was as deep and sincere as was her resentment against the supposed author of this letter.
Bob, however, did not see Wheeler, who was upstairs in the hotel behind him, and Wheeler’s third shot shattered Bob’s right elbow as he stood beneath the stairs. Changing his pistol to his left hand, Bob ran out and mounted Miller’s mare. Howard and Pitts had at last come out of the bank. Miller was lying in the street, but we thought him still alive.
Time and experience in no way dull this appreciation, for when, later, The Canterbury Tales appear, his estimate has risen ten-fold, since in the prologue to “The Miller’s Tale” we read, “and ever a thousand gode ageyn one badde.” From this time onwards, literature on the subject increases almost ad infinitum. Treatises and imaginary debates seem to vie with each other for popularity.
“This beats the mule of Merida,” cried one, “who ran away with the miller’s wife and then regretted the bargain. See, he is craving for pardon.”
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