the window, and there you'll see Snorter a galloping off with a man on his back."
Judkins went to the window and looked, but as he could see nothing at all of the kind, he said pointedly—"What do you mean? Are you taken so often?"
"I don't care," said cook, when, on looking herself, she found that the figure had vanished. "I know there was some man on Snorter. Am I not to believe my own eyes? Mary saw it as well."
"Oh, you saw it, too!" said Judkins, "did you?" Well, what was it like?"
"It was for all the world like a ghost!" replied Mary.
"It was a ghost," said Judkins, ironically; "and nothing but a ghost. What sort of a swell was he, Mary?"
"He was dressed all in white!" replied Mary. "There was not a bit cf black at all about him."
"Then of course he was a ghost. He must have been a ghost. And didn't he spit fire, Mary?—and didn't his horse breathe blue flame?—and didn't his eye-balls roll about?—and wasn't he in a white cloud?"
"I'll tell you what it is," said cook, "I don't care a bit about what you say; I know what I know; and I tell you again, I saw a man riding away upon Snorter. Do you go down to the stable, and look: if you find Snorter there, then I've done. Just put on your coat, and go down."
"Why, what do you take me for?" said Judkins. "Who do you think you're a playing upon? You call this a frolic, I s'pose? You've begun a nice game, I know; but you don't play it out upon me. Go to bed; and let's have no more of your nonsense. If you come here again, I'll call missis; she'll very soon put you to rights. You take me, i s'pose, for a fool, don't you? Be off!"
Cook, perceiving that Judkins was highly indignant, muttered something severe, and retired; and when she had had a few warm words with Mary, who felt extremely wroth at its being supposed that the miller was not all her fancy had painted, they both went to sleep, and slept well.
But Judkins for a long time could not go to sleep: his indignation at the thought of being considered a fool, was so excessive. And, of all ideas of an unpleasing character, there is probably not one so galling to a man as that of his being considered to be a fool. He may think like a fool, he may speak like a fool, he may be conscious of having acted in a very foolish manner, he may even, confidentially, call himself a fool; but no man thinks that he is a fool in the abstract, nor can any man bear to be thought a fool. And this is a wise provision of Nature.—A wise provision of Nature?—Well, it is an absurd conventional term; inasmuch, as all Nature's provisions are wise; and, therefore, perhaps, it had better be put thus: It is one of the provisions of Nature, and its admirable character is manifest in this; that if fools knew they were fools, their value in their own estimation would be small, and all fools would be consequently wretched; while the fact of its coming to their knowledge that they are by others supposed to be fools, prompts them to endeavour, at least, to act thenceforth wisely.
