It was sultry and shady; the sky was covered with clouds; there was not a living thing in sight; not a tree-top stirred; our cart rattled heavily along. My mother lay silently in her corner and gazed at the darkling world with her great, black eyes. Steve sat fuming on his box, but gradually became quieter; and he now grunted: "To think of a man being as drunk as all that!" "Who?" I asked. "Such a drunken bout is really worth making a day's journey to go and have a look at," Steve continued. "True enough, I'd heard tell that the old camel was seldom sober; and he'd come straight from the ale-house to-day." "I dare say it was just as well," my mother said. "If he had been sober, perhaps he would not have told me the truth." And so we drove away in great sadness. The thunder rolled over the mountains, quite hoarse and dull; the Fischbach storm-bell rang in the distance. Then my mother sat upright and said: "You must do something to please me, Peter; and I'll ask Steve as well: it's no use telling father, my husband, what Tom of the Footpath said." "Indeed, it would never do to repeat such fool's talk," cried the driver, very loudly, "but I'm going to the magistrate! I shall inform against him! That's what I shall do!" "I beg of you, Steve, let it be," my mother asked. "You mustn't think that I take it so much to heart. I myself have often thought that the thing will end with me as it ends with all ailing people. What can Tom of the Footpath do against that! We did not go to him to get him to tell us lies. I'm only sorry that we never once asked what we owed him for his straightforwardness." Now Steve burst out laughing and sent the whip whizzing once or twice through the air, notwithstanding that the horse was doing its best. When we drove along over the heights, the threatening storm had dispersed entirely; the setting sun shone with a faint golden gleam over the wide landscape, over wood and meadows; and a cool breeze blew in our faces. A bright tear lay on my mother's pale cheeks. As, silent and tired, we drove through our home meadows, the stars appeared in the sky. On every side, the song of the crickets purled and chirped in the grass. By the fence, where our hillside began, stood a black figure that accosted us and asked if it was we. It was my father, who had come to meet us. My mother called him by name; her voice was weak and trembling. Father took us indoors, without asking a question. Not until we were in the parlour and the rushlight was burning did he ask how we had fared. "Not badly," said Steve, "not at all badly: we have been very cheerful." "And Tom of the Footpath: what did he say?"