The following week was indeed an anxious one for the miller by the brook. Alas for his fortunes--not a single drop of rain fell either in the meadows or the hills, and the brook ran dry. You might as well have tried to turn the wheel with a pitcher of water as to turn it with the trickle which remained. On the night of the sixth day, the water-miller, humbled in heart, rode over to the windmill to make his peace and ask a boon. He would ask the wind-miller to grind the wonderful golden grain, and offer him half of the grain as a reward. Now the wind-miller had not forgotten the water-miller’s trickery; so he received his old crony with anything but a friendly air. “Grind grain for you, sir?” said the wind-miller, standing with arms akimbo and feet apart, “yes, sir; but only on one condition, sir, and that is, sir, that you let me choose my half of the grain, sir. “And hearken, sir, one thing more, sir. You must bring the grain to the windmill this very night, sir.” Now it came to pass that, as the water-miller, hanging his head, went out into the night, Cecily saw him, and ran to ask him for news of Valentine. But the water-miller was himself troubled because of the absence of his son, and could give no new tidings to the maid. Groaning many a regretful groan, the water-miller loaded his fine two-wheeled scarlet cart with sacks of golden grain, and carried it to the windmill door. It was a warm night. The water-miller unloaded the sacks, mopped his brow with a red bandanna handkerchief, and sighed. What a fool he had been not to play fair! What a fool to send away his son! When the water-miller had driven away, the triumphant wind-miller took a great iron lantern, and went down to see the grain. For a moment or two he stood motionless, chuckling at his unexpected victory. Presently he called to Cecily to gather all the lights and candles she could find, and place them round about. And now, toiling in a great blaze of candlelight, the wind-miller slowly and carefully sifted out for himself the better half of the wonderful grain. The remaining half--which was good enough, but full of husks and dust--he set apart for his rival. The dawn was breaking as he finished the task. Some of the candles were burned out, and the lanterns were smoke-begrimed and dim. Wearily rubbing the grain-dust from his eyes, the wind-miller trudged up the circular stair and tumbled into bed. He would grind the grain into flour as soon as he woke in the morn. And on that same still, autumn dawn young Valentine came out of the fairy wood. When the wind-miller woke, he woke with a start, for he had slept late, and the sun was high. How warm and misty-moisty it was! Good heavens--there wasn’t a breath of wind!