Violet Jacob > Stories told by the miller

222 STORIES TOLD BY THE MILLER
rising up, deep and pure, a forest that he had
seen before. On either side the frost-flowers
hung sparkling, their snow-crystals thick in the
jnaze of white feathers and seaweed and ferns.
The sprays and branches crowded on him in
their dazzling myriads, dense and high, and far
down the white vista into which he looked a
figure was coming—a white figure. It was the
angel.
He rose and grasped an outstretched hand.
“He is gone,” said the guests. “ The ex¬
ertion has been too much for him.” And his
pupils and friends came round him, the tears
standing in their eyes.
At that moment a gust of wind ran through
the open doors of the hall, and the black cloak,
which its owner had laid on a window-sill before
he sat down at the table, was blown from it and
flew out into the air. No one saw it go, but
it rose on the sudden wind and sailed upwards,
above the town, above the steeple, and disap¬
peared like a dark cloud into the distant spaces
of sky.
“ Some day,” said the miller to little Peter,
“ I’ll take you to the town in my cart and show