THE MILLER’S SECRET

ANCET MAMAI, an old
fife-player who comes from
sa time to time to spend the

evening with me and drink mulled wine,
told mea little village drama the other

night which took place in my mill
some twenty years ago. The good
man’s story touched me, and I am

going to try to tell it you, as I heard it.

Fancy for a moment, my dear

readers, that you are seated round a

fragrant jug of wine, and that it is an
old fifer who speaks to you.

Our part of the country, my good
sir, was not always the dead -alive,

unimportant place that it is now. In
K