The presence of Carry Brattle was required in Salisbury for the trial of John Burrows and Lawrence Acorn on Wednesday the 22nd of August. Our Vicar, who had learned that the judges would come into the city only late on the previous evening, and that the day following their entrance would doubtless be so fully occupied with other matters as to render it very improbable that the affair of the murder would then come up, had endeavoured to get permission to postpone Carry’s journey; but the little men in authority are always stern on such points, and witnesses are usually treated as persons who are not entitled to have any views as to their own personal comfort or welfare. Lawyers, who are paid for their presence, may plead other engagements, and their pleas will be considered; and if a witness be a lord, it may perhaps be thought very hard that he should be dragged away from his amusements. But the ordinary commonplace witness must simply listen and obey—at his peril. It was thus decided that Carry must be in Salisbury on the Wednesday, and remain there, hanging about the Court, till her services should be wanted. Fenwick, who had been in Salisbury, had seen that accommodation should be provided for her and for the miller at the house of Mrs. Stiggs.

The miller had decided upon going with his daughter. The Vicar did not go down to the mill again; but Mrs. Fenwick had seen Brattle, and had learned that such was to be the case. The old man said nothing to his own people about it till the Monday afternoon, up to which time Fanny was prepared to accompany her sister. He was then told, when he came in from the mill for his tea, that word had come down from the vicarage that there would be two bed-rooms for them at Mrs. Stiggs’ house. “I don’t know why there should be the cost of a second room,” said Fanny; “Carry and I won’t want two beds.”

Up to this time there had been no reconciliation between the miller and his younger daughter. Carry would ask her father whether she should do this or that, and the miller would answer her as a surly master will answer a servant whom he does not like; but the father, as a father, had never spoken to the child; nor, up to this moment, had he said a word even to his wife of his intended journey to Salisbury. But now he was driven to speak. He had placed himself in the arm chair, and was sitting with his hands on his knees gazing into the empty fire-grate. Carry was standing at the open window, pulling the dead leaves off three or four geraniums which her mother kept there in pots. Fanny was passing in and out from the back kitchen, in which the water for their tea was being boiled, and Mrs. Brattle was in her usual place with her spectacles on, and a darning needle in her hand. A minute was allowed to pass by before the miller answered his eldest daughter.

“There’ll be two beds wanted,” he said; “I told Muster Fenwick as I’d go with the girl myself;—and so I wull.”

Carry started so that she broke the flower which she was touching. Mrs. Brattle immediately stopped her needle, and withdrew her spectacles from her nose. Fanny, who was that instant bringing the tea-pot out of the back kitchen, put it down among the tea cups, and stood still to consider what she had heard.

“Dear, dear, dear!” said the mother.

“Father,” said Fanny, coming up to him, and just touching him with her hand; “’twill be best for you to go, much best. I am heartily glad on it, and so will Carry be.”

“I knows nowt about that,” said the miller; “but I mean to go, and that’s all about it. I ain’t a been to Salsbry these fifteen year and more, and I shan’t be there never again.”

“There’s no saying that, father,” said Fanny.

“And it ain’t for no pleasure as I’m agoing now. Nobody’ll s’pect that of me. I’d liever let the millstone come on my foot.”

There was nothing more said about it that evening, nothing more at least in the miller’s hearing. Carry and her sister were discussing it nearly the whole night. It was very soon plain to Fanny that Carry had heard the tidings with dismay. To be alone with her father for two, three, or perhaps four days, seemed to her to be so terrible, that she hardly knew how to face the misery and gloom of his company,—in addition to the fears she had as to what they would say and do to her in the Court. Since she had been home, she had learned almost to tremble at the sound of her father’s foot; and yet she had known that he would not harm her, would hardly notice her, would not do more than look at her. But now, for three long frightful days to come, she would be subject to his wrath during every moment of her life.

“Will he speak to me, Fanny, d’ye think?” she asked.

“Of course he’ll speak to you, child.”

“But he hasn’t, you know,—not since I’ve been home; not once; not as he does to you and mother. I know he hates me, and wishes I was dead. And, Fanny, I wishes it myself every day of my life.”

“He wishes nothing of the kind, Carry.”

“Why don’t he say one kind word to me, then? I know I’ve been bad. But I ain’t a done a single thing since I’ve been home as ‘d a’ made him angry if he seed it, or said a word as he mightn’t a’ heard.”

“I don’t think you have, dear.”

“Then why can’t he come round, if it was ever so little? I’d sooner he’d beat me; that I would.”

“He’ll never do that, Carry. I don’t know as he ever laid a hand upon one of us since we was little things.”

“It ‘d be better than never speaking to a girl. Only for you and mother, Fan, I’d be off again.”

“You would not. You know you would not. How dare you say that?”

“But why shouldn’t he say a word to one, so that one shouldn’t go about like a dead body in the house?”

“Carry dear, listen to this. If you’ll manage well; if you’ll be good to him, and patient while you are with him; if you’ll bear with him, and yet be gentle when he—”

“I am gentle,—always,—now.”

“You are, dear; but when he speaks, as he’ll have to speak when you’re all alone like, be very gentle. Maybe, Carry, when you’ve come back, he will be gentle with you.”

They had ever so much more to discuss. Would Sam be at the trial? And, if so, would he and his father speak to each other? They had both been told that Sam had been summoned, and that the police would enforce his attendance; but they were neither of them sure whether he would be there in custody or as a free man. At last they went to sleep, but Carry’s slumbers were not very sound. As has been told before, it was the miller’s custom to be up every morning at five. The two girls would afterwards rise at six, and then, an hour after that, Mrs. Brattle would be instructed that her time had come. On the Tuesday morning, however, the miller was not the first of the family to leave his bed. Carry crept out of hers by the earliest dawn of daylight, without waking her sister, and put on her clothes stealthily. Then she made her way silently to the front door, which she opened, and stood there outside waiting till her father should come. The morning, though it was in August, was chill, and the time seemed to be very long. She had managed to look at the old clock as she passed, and had seen that it wanted a quarter to five. She knew that her father was never later than five. What, if on this special morning he should not come, just because she had resolved, after many inward struggles, to make one great effort to obtain his pardon.

At last he was coming. She heard his step in the passage, and then she was aware that he had stopped when he found the fastenings of the door unloosed. She perceived too that he delayed to examine the lock,—as it was natural that he should do; and she had forgotten that he would be arrested by the open door. Thinking of this in the moment of time that was allowed to her, she hurried forward and encountered him.

“Father,” she said; “it is I.”

He was angry that she should have dared to unbolt the door, or to withdraw the bars. What was she, that she should be trusted to open or to close the house? And there came upon him some idea of wanton and improper conduct. Why was she there at that hour? Must it be that he should put her again from the shelter of his roof?

Carry was clever enough to perceive in a moment what was passing in the old man’s mind. “Father,” she said, “it was to see you. And I thought,—perhaps,—I might say it out here.” He believed her at once. In whatever spirit he might accept her present effort, that other idea had already vanished. She was there that they two might be alone together in the fresh morning air, and he knew that it was so. “Father,” she said, looking up into his face. Then she fell on the ground at hi............