O wise parson, so to read the lesson of the road! “It is true,” I answered; “but some of us find our salvation in the actual work, and earn our bread better in this than in any other way. No man is dependent on our earning, all men on our work. We are ‘rich beyond the dreams of avarice’ because we have all that we need, and yet we taste the life and poverty of the very poor. We are, if you will, uncloistered monks, preaching friars who speak not with the tongue, disciples who hear the wise words of a silent master.” “Robert Louis Stevenson was a roadmender,” said the wise parson. “Ay, and with more than his pen,” I answered. “I wonder was he ever so truly great, so entirely the man we know and love, as when he inspired the chiefs to make a highway in the wilderness. Surely no more fitting monument could exist to his memory than the Road of Gratitude, cut, laid, and kept by the pure-blooded tribe kings of Samoa.” Parson nodded. “He knew that the people who make no roads are ruled out from intelligent participation in the world’s brotherhood.” He filled his pipe, thinking the while, then he held out his pouch to me. “Try some of this baccy,” he said; “Sherwood of Magdalen sent it me from some outlandish place.” I accepted gratefully. It was such tobacco as falls to the lot of few roadmenders. He rose to go. “I wish I could come and break stones,” he said, a little wistfully. “Nay,” said I, “few men have such weary roadmending as yours, and perhaps you need my road less than most men, and less than most parsons.” We shook hands, and he went down the road and out of my life. He little guessed that I knew Sherwood, ay, and knew him too, for had not Sherwood told me of the man he delighted to honour. Ah, well! I am no Browning Junior, and Sherwood’s name is not Sherwood. CHAPTER VI AWHILE ago I took a holiday; mouched, played truant from my road. Jem the waggoner hailed me as he passed—he was going to the mill—would I ride with him and come back atop of the full sacks? I hid my hammer in the hedge, climbed into the great waggon white and fragrant with the clean sweet meal, and flung myself down on the empty flour bags. The looped-back tarpaulin framed the long vista of my road with the downs beyond; and I lay in the cool dark, caressed by the fresh breeze in its thoroughfare, soothed by the strong monotonous tramp of the great grey team and the music of the jangling harness. Jem walked at the leaders’ heads; it is his rule when the waggon is empty, a rule no “company” will make him break. At first I regretted it, but soon discovered I learnt to know him better so, as he plodded along, his thickset figure slightly bent, his hands in his pockets, his whip under one arm, whistling hymn tunes in a low minor, while the great horses answered to his voice without touch of lash or guiding rein.