The priest’s pace became more and more leisurely: now he would stop to take breath, now to look at his two grey horses, now to glance at a few boys who were throwing stones into a large pear-tree. They came running to him in a body, and, holding their hands behind them, all kissed the sleeve of his soutane. He stroked their flaxen heads, but added a word of warning: “Have a care not to break the branches, or you will get no pears at all next year.” “We were not throwing stones at the pears,” answered one boy, bolder than the rest; “there’s a chough’s nest up in the tree.” The priest passed on with a friendly smile and was presently among the potato-diggers. “God speed your work!” “May God reward you!” they replied in a chorus, and all came up to kiss their beloved pastor’s hands. “Our Lord has given us plenty of potatoes this year, I think,” he said, offering his open snuff-box to the men, who respectfully accepted; refraining, however, from taking snuff in his presence. “Aye, potatoes are as big as a cat’s head, and plenty to each plant.” “Ah, then pigs will rise in price; you will all want to have some to fatten.” “They are dear enough as it is. There was a swine plague last summer, and we have to buy them even in Prussia.” “So there was, so there was. And whose potatoes are you digging here?” “Why Boryna’s, of course.” “I don’t see him with you, so I wasn’t sure.” “Father is only at the forest with my goodman.” “Oh, there you are, Hanka? How goes it?” he said, turning to a handsome young woman who wore a red kerchief round her head. She came forward, and, her hands being soiled, threw her apron over them as she took the priest’s hand to kiss. “Well, and how is your little boy whom I christened in harvest time?” “God bless your Reverence, he is well and lively.” “The Lord be with you all!” “And with your Reverence!” He walked away to the right, where the burying-ground, near a road planted with poplars, lay on that side of the village. They gazed after him in silence for some time, and it was only when his thin and slightly bent figure had passed the low stone enclosure and entered the mortuary chapel, overshadowed with the yellowish and reddish foliage of birches and maples, that they found their tongues again. “There is no better man in the whole world,” said one of the women. “Yes, indeed,” chimed in Hanka, emptying her basketful on to a yellow heap conspicuous on the freshly furrowed soil and dry stalks. “They would have taken him away from us to town, but father went with the Voyt[3] to entreat the Bishop, and so they did not get him. But dig away, you, dig away: the day and the field are both drawing to a close.” ----- Footnote 3: _Voyt_—the headman of the community.—_Translator’s Note._ They set again to work in silence. Only the crunching sound of the hoes in the hard ground, with now and then the sharp clink of steel upon stone, was to be heard.