“Don’t be fainthearted⁠—God will protect them.” The peasant did not reply, but swearing at the mare, who had changed from a trot into a slow walk, he pulled the rope reins sharply.

They entered a forest where the tracks were all equally bad, and drove along in silence for some time, trying to pick out the best of them. It was only after they had passed through the forest, and were on the high road which led through fields bright with springing shoots of the autumn-sown corn, that the priest spoke again.

“There is promise of a good crop,” he said.

“Not bad,” answered the peasant, and was silent. All further attempts at conversation on the part of the priest were in vain.

They reached the patient’s house about breakfast-time.