Next day Florian was under way. His thoughts were gloomy when he reflected upon where he was going; but the exercise soon improved his spirits. For many weeks he had scarcely been outside of the village. All his thoughts had been absorbed by paltry troubles and circumscribed efforts: now he once more found a larger standard to measure things by, and said to himself, "Why can't we live somewhere else? The Nordstetten grass can grow without us. I can be happy with my Crescence, even though George the blacksmith and the host of the Eagle know nothing about it: but they must respect me first, and then I'll go. Not a living soul must ever hear a word of this trip that I'm on now." It was late in the afternoon when he reached his destination. At the parsonage he found no one but the housekeeper,--a well-fed, proud-looking personage. She made various efforts to fathom his purpose, but could obtain no other answer than that he must see the parson himself. At length he came, preceded by his brace of half-shorn Pomeranian poodles, who offered to attack the stranger, but were deterred by a single look. It was not without reason that people said Florian could charm dogs with magic: the most furious suddenly took fright when he eyed them sharply. When Florian saw the parson, his own eyes fell. He was a powerful, thick-set man, with a white-and-black cravat. Crescence was his image, to the very freckles. The parson saw something suspicious in the shyness of his visitor, and asked him what he wanted. "I wish to speak a word with you alone," said Florian. The parson bade him follow to his study. Florian delivered the letter, and the parson read it. Florian watched the play of his features narrowly. "From whom is this letter?" asked the parson. "I don't know the person." "You know the Red Tailor's wife, surely? Her name is below there, and the letter is from her oldest daughter. The tailor's wife is at the point of death, and won't get well again." "Sorry to hear it. Give the people my good wishes, and if I can do any thing for them it shall be done." "And you won't do something particular for Crescence now?" "I don't see why." "But I see it, your reverence. Not a soul shall ever hear of it, I'll take my oath and sacrament upon it; but help us you must, or I don't know what's to become of us both." The parson fumbled in his pocket for his keys, and, having found the right one, he twirled it in his fingers, saying, "I always like to assist the poor, but can do very little just now." "Then give me your handwriting for the balance." At these words the parson looked around him with an air of wrath and terror. He thought he must have betrayed himself in permitting Florian to make such a demand. With forced hardness in his tone, he repeated, "Once for all, I have nothing to do with these people; and here is something toward your expenses."