The town was tiny and the streets so narrow that conversation could be held by neighbours across the road beneath the gables. The high pointed roofs had all the shades of red and brick, and before nearly each small window bunches of scarlet geraniums bloomed in profusion,--a sleepy little place, where the grey cats lazily slept in the middle of the pavement quite undisturbed by any passer-by, quite safe from being run over. They blinked their eyes in the bright sunshine, and stretched their supple limbs to the kindly warmth. Over the sea of red roofs the different-shaped chimneys sent up their bluish smoke that hung like a transparent cloud waving slowly backwards and forwards in the still air. Now steps came along one of the quiet streets, and the silence was such that they were heard long before the walker came into sight. He was a quite young man, tired but light of step, and his uncovered head shone like gold in the sunshine. Round his neck he wore a heavy golden chain, and his clothes were new; within his eyes there was a searching look, but a smile was on his face, and the world seemed to him just one long road upon which he could follow his dream. He chose the shady side of the street because the day was warm and the sun had poured down for many hours upon his way. All the time he glanced right and left as if expecting to find what he was looking for; but he was in no hurry, and often a glad little song broke from his lips, whilst the sound of his strong stick on the cobble stones had a cheery note that echoed along the houses. Eric felt like a bird of the air, that could fly whither it would, and for which each tree was a resting-place. He cared little for how long he had wandered, nor for what he had left behind, nor where he was going; all he needed was a long road that would lead him on and on until he reached his goal. And his goal might be reached any day, any hour, any minute. Hope was always within his heart; but it mattered not if its fulfilment were to-day or to-morrow. His smile was so sweet and his face so fair that all were ready to open their doors to him; so he feared neither hunger nor thirst, neither heat nor cold, neither night nor storm. Now he was feeling rather weary, so he sat down on a doorstep, drew his flute from his pocket, and began to play soft little runs up and down; his fingers, as if they were dancing, moving lightly over the small holes. The flies buzzed around him trying to tease him, but he was indifferent to all except the sweet notes of his flute. So absorbed was he that he did not hear the door open behind him, and only looked up when a hand was laid upon his shoulder. 'Twas the trembling hand of a quite old woman, very bent, her face lined with many wrinkles, her eyes dim and tired. Eric sprang to his feet and craved pardon for being in her way.