re since women, as I hear tell, have ceased to spin brides'
shifts, I am obliged to believe that these things are spun by toads.
Because brides there must be though the wells should run dry.

Joscelyn: I do not see the connection. However, it is obvious that the
bad logic of your song has aroused even Gillian's attention, so for
mercy's sake make short work of your tale before it flags again.

Martin: I will follow your advice. And do you follow me with your best
attention while I turn the wheel of The Mill of Dreams.

THE MILL OF DREAMS

There was once, dear maidens, a girl who lived in a mill on the
Sidlesham marshes. But in those days the marshlands were meadowlands,
with streams running in from the coast, so that their water was
brackish and salt. And sometimes the girl dipped her finger in the
water and sucked it and tasted the sea. And the taste made storms rise
in her heart. Her name was Helen.

The mill-house was a gaunt and gloomy building of stone, as gray as
sleep, weatherstained with dreams. It had fine proportions, and looked
like a noble prison. And in fact, if a prison is the lockhouse of
secrets, it was one. The great millstones ground day and night, and
what the world sent in as corn it got back as flour. And as to the
secrets of the grinding it asked no questions, because to the world
results are everything. It understands death better than sorrow,
marriage better than love, and birth better than creation. And the
millstones of joy and pain, grinding dreams into bread, it seldom
hears. But Helen heard them, and they were all the knowledge she had of
life; for if the mill was a prison of dreams it was her prison too.

Her father the miller was a harsh man and dark; he was dark within and
without. Her mother was dead; she did not remember her. As she grew up
she did little by little the work of the big place. She was her
father's servant, and he kept her as close to her work as he kept his
millstones to theirs. He was morose, and welcomed no company. Gayety he
hated. Helen knew no songs, for she had heard none. From morning till
night she worked for her father. When she had done all her other work
she spun flax into linen for shirts and gowns, and wool for stockings
and vests. If she went outside the mill-house, it was only for a few
steps for a few moments. She wasn't two miles from the sea, but she had
never seen it. But she tasted the salt water and smelt the salt wind.

Like all things tha