“Has an old pilgrim been here?” asked she. “I met one, and told him to call.”

“There he is,” said her husband, pointing to the oven, on which sat Kornéy, rubbing his lean and hairy legs.

When tea was ready, they asked Kornéy to join them. He climbed down, and seated himself at the end of a bench. They handed him a cup of tea and a piece of sugar.

The talk was about the weather and the harvest. There was no getting the corn in. The landowner’s sheaves were sprouting in the fields. As soon as one started carting them, down came the rain again. The peasants had pretty well got theirs in, but the landowner’s corn was rotting like mad. And the mice in the sheaves were just dreadful!

Kornéy told of a field he had seen as he came along which was still full of sheaves.

The young housewife poured him out a fifth cup of the weak, pale yellow tea, and handed it to him.