"A good carrier, who takes poor people driving: I wouldn't mind that," remarked my mother, whereupon Steve gave a little smirk. The road led straight up and became stony; Steve and I got down and walked beside the creaking cart. The sun had become hot. It was a tiring drive and we only got on slowly. When we were up at the top and driving along through the almost level, but dark woods of the Fischbacheralpe, we no longer heard the cart-wheels, for the ground was thickly strewn with pine-needles, save that, every now and again, the wheels struck against a root. The birds had become silent, for the hot day lay over the tree-tops. My mother had fallen asleep. I looked at her pale face and thought: "Tom of the Footpath is sure to know of something that will do her good; it's a lucky thing that we were able to drive to Tom of the Footpath." "Like a bit of bread, Peter?" asked Steve. "I should be glad of a bit." And, when I got my piece of bread, there was a piece of bacon on it; and now my distress began. I held the thing in my hand for ever so long and looked at it and looked up at my mother: she was asleep. I did not want to offend Steve, who meant so well by us. As, however, I could not leave the thing as it was, lying in my hand, I at last began, first quite softly, but gradually louder, to call out: "Steve!" "What do you want?" he asked, at last. "I should only like to beg as a favour," I said, quite despondently, "just as a favour, that I need not eat the bacon. For indeed I don't like bacon." "You don't know what's good," said the driver, laughing, and relieved me of my difficulty. At last, we began to go downhill; and now the cart jolted over the burning stones and shook the invalid out of her sleep; and the sun burnt into her marrow; and she felt chilled all the same. Steve muttered: "Tom of the Footpath must be the devil of a good doctor to make a drive like this worth while. Hold up, Sorrel: we've not much further to go." It was late in the afternoon when we reached the valley and stopped at the little house where Tom of the Footpath lived. We carried mother into the musty, stuffy parlour, in which all the little windows were tight shut. There we let her down on the bench and asked for Tom. A grumpy old woman answered that Tom was not there. "We can see that," said Steve, "but might we ask where he is?" "Can't say." "When's he coming in?" "Maybe he won't stay out long, maybe he won't be back till night, maybe he's gone to the ale-house." The old woman left the room; and there we sat. My mother drew a deep breath. Steve went after the old woman and asked her for a spoonful of hot soup for the invalid. "Where should I get hot soup from at this time of day? The fire's been out on the hearth this long since." That was the answer. Thereupon the driver himself set to and lit the fire, looked for milk and boiled it.