Poor Abel had a dread of the great, gawky, mischievous-looking man, which probably prevented his complaining to his mother of many a sly pinch and buffet which he endured from him. And George took some pains to keep up this wholesome awe of himself, by vague and terrifying speeches, and by a trick of what he called “dropping on” poor Abel in the dusk, with hideous grimaces and uncouth sounds. He once came thus upon Abel in an upper floor, and the boy fled from him so hastily that he caught his foot in the ladder and fell headlong. Though it must have been quite uncertain for some moments whether Abel had not broken his neck, the miller’s man displayed no anxiety. He only clapped his hands upon his knees, in a sort of uncouth ecstasy of spite, saying, “Down a comes vlump, like a twoad from roost. Haw, haw, haw!” Happily, Abel fell with little more damage to himself than the mill-cats experienced in many such a tumble, as they fled before the tormenting George. But, after all this, it was with no small surprise that Abel found himself the object of attentions from the miller’s man, which bore the look of friendliness. At first, when George made civil speeches, and invited Abel to “see the stwones a-grinding,” he only felt an additional terror, being convinced that mischief was meant in reality. But, when days and weeks went by, and he wandered unmolested from floor to floor, with many a kindly word from George, and not a single cuff or nip, the sweet-tempered Abel began to feel gratitude, and almost an affection, for his quondam tormentor. George, for his part, had hitherto done some violence to his own feelings by his constant refusal to allow Abel to help him to sweep the mill or couple the sacks for lifting. He would have been only too glad to put some of his own work on the shoulders of another, had it not been for the vexatious thought that he would be giving pleasure by so doing where he only wanted to annoy. And in his very unamiable disposition malice was a stronger quality even than idleness. But now, when for some reason best known to himself, he wished to win Abel’s regard, it was a slight recompense to him for restraining his love of tormenting that he got a good deal of work out of Abel at odd moments when the miller was away. So well did he manage this, that a marked improvement in the tidiness of the round-house drew some praise from his master. “Thee’ll be a sprack man yet, Gearge,” said the windmiller, encouragingly. “Thee takes the broom into the corners now.” “So I do,” said George, unblushingly, “so I do. But lor, Master Lake, what a man you be to notice un!” George’s kinder demeanor towards Abel began shortly after the coming of the little Jan, and George himself accounted for it in the following manner:— “You do be kind to me now, Gearge,” said Abel, gratefully, as he stood one day, with the baby in his arms, watching the miller’s man emptying a sack of grain into the hopper.