Now it behooves me to mention a strange fancy of my father’s--which was this, that though no grain or husk in our day ever crumbled between the stones, the wheel was forever kept in motion, as if our fortunes lay in grinding against impalpable time. The custom was in itself ghostly, and its regularity was interrupted only at odd moments, and those generally in the night, when, lying abed upstairs, we boys would become conscious of a temporary cessation of the humming, vibrating noise that was so habitual to the place. To this fancy was added a strange solicitude on the part of my father for the well-being of the wheel itself. He would disappear into the room of silence twice or thrice a day to oil and examine it, and if rarely any tinkering was called for we knew it by the sound of the closing of the sluice and of the water rush swerving round by another channel. Now, for the time I have said enough, and with a sigh return to that May afternoon and little Zyp, the changeling. She followed me into the mill so quietly that I hardly heard her step behind me. When I looked back her eyes were full of a strange speculation and her hands crossed on her breast, as if she prayed. She motioned me forward and I obeyed, marveling at my own submission. I had no slightest idea what I was to say to my father or what propose. We found him seated by the table in the living room upstairs, a bottle and glass before him. The weekly demon was beginning to work, but had not yet obtained the mastery. He stared at us as we entered, but said nothing. Then, to my wonder, Zyp walked straight up to the old man, pulled his arms down, sat upon his knee and kissed his rutted cheek. I gave a gasp that was echoed by Jason, who had followed and was leaning against the lintel of the open door. Still my father said nothing and I trembled at the ominous silence. At last in desperation I stammered, and all the time Zyp was caressing the passive face. “Dad, the girl fell into the water and I pulled her out, and here she is.” Then at length my father said in a harsh, deep voice: “You pulled her out? What was Jason there doing?” “Waiting for her to drown,” my brother answered for himself, defiantly forestalling conviction. My father put the girl from him, strode furiously across the room, seized Jason by one arm and gave him several cruel, heavy blows across his shoulders and the back of his head. The boy was half stunned, but uttered no cry, and at every stroke Zyp laughed and clapped her hands. Then, flinging his victim to the floor, from which he immediately rose again and resumed his former posture by the door, pale but unsubdued, my father returned to his seat and held the girl at arm’s length before him. “Who are you?” he said. She answered, “A changeling,” in a voice soft as flowers. “What’s your name?” “Zyp.” “Your other name?” “Never mind; Zyp’s enough.” “Is it? Where do you come from? What brings you here?” “Renny brought me here because I love him.”