Did he wish me to go near to him? I was peeling potatoes. Did I give him the scissors? No; just then someone came in--but who? She cannot recollect, and goes puzzling herself--who? The child sleeps on, and smiles; it is dreaming. VIII THE MESSENGER He is on the road, and his beard and coat-tails flutter in the wind. Every few minutes he presses a hand to his left side--he feels a pang; but he will not confess to it--he tries to think he is only making sure of his leather letter-bag. "If only I don't lose the contract-paper and the money!" That is what he is so afraid of. "And if it _does_ hurt me, it means nothing. Thank God, I've got strength enough for an errand like this and to spare! Another at my years wouldn't be able to do a verst,[21] while I, thanks to His dear Name, owe no one a farthing and earn my own living. God be praised, they trust me with money. "If what they trust me with were my own, I shouldn't be running errands at more than seventy years old; but if the Almighty wills it so--so be it." It begins to snow in thick flakes; he is continually wiping his face. "I haven't more than half a mile[22] to go now," he thinks. _"O wa!_ what is that to me? It is much nearer than further." He turns his head. "One doesn't even see the town-clock from here, or the convent, or the barracks; on with you, Shemaiah, my lad." And Shemaiah tramps on through the wet snow; the old feet welter in and out. "Thank God, there is not much wind." Much wind, apparently, meant a gale; the wind was strong enough and blew right into his face, taking his breath away with every gust; it forced the tears out of his old eyes, and they hurt him like pins; but then he always suffered from his eyes. It occurred to him that he would spend his next earnings on road-spectacles--large, round ones that would cover his eyes completely. "If God will," he thought, "I shall manage it. If I only had an errand to go every day, a long, long one. Thank God, I can walk any distance, and I should soon save up enough for the spectacles." He is also in want of a fur coat of some sort, it would ease the oppression on his chest; but he considers that, meanwhile, he has a warm cloak. "If only it does not tear, it is an excellent one." He smiles to himself. "No new-fangled spider-web for you. All good, old-fashioned sateen--it will outlast me yet. And it has no slit--that's a great point. It doesn't blow out like the cloaks they make nowadays, and it folds over ever so far in front. "Of course," he thinks on, "a fur coat is better; it's warm--beautifully warm. But spectacles come first. A fur is only good for winter, and spectacles are wanted all the year round, because in summer, when there's a wind and it blows the dust into your eyes, it's worse than in winter." And so it was settled; first spectacles and then a fur coat. Please God, he would help to carry corn--that would mean four gulden.