A ship drifted becalmed upon the glassy sea; a blue haze of wavy summer heat lay upon the meadows, and over the wooded hills hung a motionless mass of bluish cloud with a rim of silvery white. There was not even air enough to stir a dead leaf hanging by a thread. In and out of the door of the mill, like one distracted ran the miller; he stood upon the balcony and stared about at the sky, the greeny-leaden sea, and the helpless ship; he lifted a moistened finger to the air. Oh, for a wind! And now a ship’s bell in the mill struck the eight strokes of high noon, and presently the water-miller came hurrying to the mill in his scarlet cart. A moment’s glance at the two halves of golden grain told him of the wind-miller’s counterstroke, and he ran upstairs into the mill room full of wrath. [Illustration: _He lifted a moistened finger to the air. Good heavens--there wasn’t a breath of wind!_] “I brought you my grain to grind,” he shouted at the wind-miller, “and you have not done so. I shall take it all back again, do you hear?” “Wait; you made a bargain with me,” answered the wind-miller. “I tell you I am done with the bargain,” cried out the water-miller in a passion. “I tell you a bargain’s a bargain,” shouted the wind-miller. “Touch yon grain if you dare!” And now, I am sure, the old friends and cronies would have come to blows, had not Valentine and Cecily suddenly hurried and rushed between them. “Good sirs,” said honest Valentine, “pray you stand apart and do each other no wrong. The brook is dry; the wind is gone; of what use then is this disputed grain? Were it not best, mayhap, to begin anew?” “Dear father,” said pretty Cecily, “Will you give your share of the grain to me?” “With all my heart,” said the wind-miller, who hated brawling. “And will you give your share to me, father?” asked Valentine. “Yes, and gladly,” said the water-miller. “Heart’s thanks to you both, good sirs,” said the youth with a bow and the maid with a courtesy. “And now,” continued Valentine, “you shall all behold a great wonder. “O Husbandman of the Hills, you gave me a wish for a wage. Grant it to me now! I wish for a fine windmill-wind to blow till sundown of this day.” Out of the hills came the wind. It swept up an inland dust, it sent the leaves on the higher crests a-flying, it rushed over the hot sea-scented meadows, it surged about the mill--and the great arms gathered it, creaked, groaned, and began a-spinning.