hat he had not given even a "Good-day"
to those who had brought their corn to him to grind, and that when he
passed through the village he had spurned children and dogs who had
once been favourites of his, and had come to him with the confidence of
old playmates. He remembered that some he had known and cared for had
passed through sickness and trouble, and he had not gone to cheer them
with a single word. And all this because he was unhappy.

And as he pondered with ever-increasing shame, the mouse crept up again
and nibbled at his bread. "In spite of what this mouse has seen, it
can still trust me," he thought, "and I, because one deceived me, have
mistrusted all the world!"

Then he got up and put on his hat, and went out into the twilight. A
little breeze had sprung up, and the trees seemed to be whispering
together. He seemed to know what they said, though he could not have
put it into words. He felt as if his old happiest self were rising
once more from the tomb in which his resentment had buried it. It was
not the light-hearted self which had once been, but it was the old
loving, unselfish Tom for all that. He wandered on aimlessly at first,
but afterwards with definite intentions. He would go to Brooks's
cottage. He could bear to do so now. He would see how the neglected
garden had done without him, and perhaps to-morrow put it to rights.

When Tom reached the garden gate (it was a tall wicket-gate through
which you could get a peep at the garden) he undid the padlock, and in
the half-light saw a tall holly-hock stretching itself across the
entrance as if barring the way. "The garden is ours--mine and the rest
of the flowers," it seemed to say. "Why do you come to disturb our
peace?--you who have forsaken us."

And the miller's heart answered, "If one who has forsaken you should
come back, would you not receive him?" And then there came into his
mind a glad thought. Anne Grey might some day turn to him in trouble,
and then he would help her, and never--certainly never--reproach her.
This thought warmed his heart as he passed into the garden. How sweet
was the breath of the flowers! How their delicate shapes outlined
themselves in the twilight! There was the little arbor over which Tom
had trained the honeysuckle and blush-roses. He had often fancied Anne
sitting there in the long summer afternoons sewing and singing to
herself. Now the trailers of the rose half hid the entrance, and a bat