‘I will give thee elevenpence the bushel,’ he said. ‘By Christ’s Passion,’ she answered him wrathfully, ‘I had rather fling it on the fire or to the swine.’ ‘Nay, nay, be not an angered.’ ‘I have been offered more this morning already.’ ‘Ay, hast thou? Well then, twelvepence, I’ll say twelvepence the bushel.’ ‘Nay, nor that either, as I am a mortal woman. Fourteenpence or I’ll not sell.’ John the Miller shook his head. ‘I cannot more than twelve,’ he said, ‘’tis a just price.’ ‘Then, by the Lord,’ quoth Meg furiously, ‘’twill be for those that can and will.’ John the Miller shook his head again, smiled and passed on. The Bailey called from within the hostelry of the ‘Three Arrows,’ where he drank his fourth flagon of ale. ‘I told thee, little Meg, thou shouldst not get better than twelvepence the bushel.’ ‘To Hell with thee,’ screamed Meg furiously. The market square was like a furnace, her mouth was parched as a lime-kiln, but she had no pennies wherewith to buy ale until her corn was sold. The houses, pens, and booths seemed to rise and fall before her eyes in a fierce wave of heat. Directly before her stood the Town Church, its front bathed in the white glare of the sunlight; she gazed at it with hard and half-unwitting eyes. The little door in the porch was slowly pushed open, and an old woman came out and hobbled away on her stick down the side of the market hill. The door, swinging slowly to again, gave a momentary glimpse of the cool and shadowy interior. Meg gazed awhile at the closed door; then she stooped, shouldered the heavy sack of corn, and slowly crossed the torrid market-place. She pushed open the little door and entered the church. She crossed herself at the font with holy water, and lifted some of the water in her hands and bathed her hot and dusty face. She carried some of it to her lips, but it was too salt. Then she curtsied awkwardly to the Holy Altar, and going up to the rood-screen, sank down on her knees before a bench with her sack beside her. The church was very dark and still and cool, and the faint smell of flowers and incense filled it. Meg regarded the miraculous image of Our Lady and Her Blessed Babe, which, as folk think, was wrought by the Holy Saint Joseph himself in the exact portraiture of the Virgin and her Son. Before her shrine burned a dozen candles and the sacred lamp, which, according to usage, is never extinguished night nor day. The Blessed Virgin clasped the little Christ close to her bosom, but His little arms were stretched out towards Meg and His countenance gazed sweetly and lovingly upon her.