"
He went out, stooping under the weight of his bag, and picking up a grey
turkey's wing from the ledge, Abel began brushing out the valve of the
mill, in which the meal had grown heavy from dampness.
"The truth is, Moses," he remarked, "you are a fool to want what you
can't have in life." The puppy looked up at him inquiringly, its long
ears flapping about its soft foolish face. "But I reckon we're all
fools, when it comes to that."
When the grinding was over for the day, he shut down the mill, and
calling Moses to heel, went out on the old mill-race, where the upper
gate was locked by a crude wooden spar known as the "key." He was
standing under the sycamore, with this implement in his hand, when he
discerned the figure of Molly approaching slowly amid the feathery white
pollen which lay in patches of delicate bloom over the sorrel waste of
the broomsedge. Without moving he waited until she had crossed the log
and stood looking up at him from the near side of the stream.
"Abel, are you still angry with me?" she asked, smiling.
Dropping the key into the lock, he walked slowly to the end of the
mill-race, and descended the short steps to the hillside.
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