"I will go to her and tell her
so."
"Not yet," said the mouse. "Wait."
And then among the flowers there appeared a little child, and the child
spoke low to the flowers.
"Listen," said the mouse.
"Oh, flowers, I have no father," murmured the child.
"Stop," cried the miller, "I must go."
And as he said this the light went quite out, and in the dim starlight
which shone through the window he saw the mouse nibbling a crust of
bread near his elbow. But for this little rustling sound, and Dot's
breathing, all was silent. Yet there were voices in the miller's heart
which made themselves heard well enough. One was the voice of Hope,
the other the voice of Love.
So next day, when the sun was setting, Tom put on his best clothes,
and, taking Dot by the hand, walked towards Brooks's cottage. When
they reached it, Anne's little child stood in the gateway.
"Little one," said Tom, stooping and kissing the child, "is mother in
the garden?"
The child pointed to the arbor.
"Stay together, children," said the miller; and then he entered the
arbor.
* * * * * *
"What did I tell you?" said the mouse. The miller was in the old room
at the mill for the last night.
"It matters little what you told me," said the miller--"you _taught_ me
so much."
Now from this time the mouse spoke no more to Tom, though he often saw
the little brown creature. It is only to the lonely and sorrowful that
mice and trees and clouds and wind talk much.
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