“He is, Rachel. Let us take a seat beside our comfortable hearth. Well, well, I never knew what the word window meant before. It signifies, I suppose, a place for the wind to come in at. Some of the old witches, who were executed at Lancaster, on the day of our marriage, may have come to the cave, to raise such a squall. The mill is safe, and so is this house. But oh, how many there will be who are shelterless!” They again sat down, and, for a time, their conversation was inaudible. The wind raved louder, and went to the highest note in the maniac gamut. At intervals, when the storm subsided into low meanings, and dying sounds, the lightning flashed vividly, as if the glances of nature were still angry, although her voice was hushed. The miller and his dame crept closer together. When they could not speak, they listened to the wind tremblingly, like children over some fireside tale of terror. Rachel rested one hand upon her husband’s shoulders, and the other, sometimes, sought his neck. Both shuddered, as they turned their eyes to the window, but had perfect confidence when they gazed upon each other’s face, illuminated by the cheerful light of the hearth. There is magic in that blaze to man and wife. Not even sunset, with its gorgeous hues lighting up the window beside which they sit, much less the soft artificial rays thrown from the finely polished marble of the ceiling, can reveal the same sources of inexpressible domestic happiness! Wealth, laugh not at the affection of the poor. Love is within the breast, and flutters not on spangled garments of costly quality and workmanship, or haunts palaces. Love dwelt with the first pair, when they were driven from Paradise, and were only covered with leaves. The language of the poor to you may appear rude; but there are some to whom it is music, as sweet as it is sincere. Their touch to you may appear hard, but there are some who thrill under the beating of its every pulse. And youth, laugh not at the affection of the aged, for the heart is never leafless and sapless! When they are about to step into the grave, they walk closer together, and every movement is an embrace. Accordingly, no young couple could have been more loving than Hans and Rachel Skippon, and the storm led them to speak of their many comforts. “Rachel,” replied Hans, to a remark of the dame, upon the pleasures of their retired life, “it is even so, and I would not exchange places with the proudest lord in the land. Nay, I would not sell my miller’s coat. This morning, as I walked into Lancaster, a stout, stiff-necked lad came forward, and asked me to become a soldier, promising great distinction. Says I, white is the colour of my flag, and the only coat of of mail I shall ever consent to wear, must be a coat of meal!” “A soldier!” ejaculated Rachel.