So Karl fared well that night, and on the morrow once more started happily forth upon his mission. Thus indeed he fared wherever he went. At first folk laughed at the story which he told. But when they came to think it over, they found it not so ridiculous. Looking at the poor fool’s eager face and watching his tireless labor for the good of people whom he would never see, their hearts smote them for their own selfishness, and they were ashamed. They treated him well. Karl never lacked for a meal or a bed; the telling of his story always earned either. Yet he never expected this reward, but was continually wondering why folk were so good to him. He thanked them humbly for their charity, and when he was refreshed, went forth again upon his pilgrimage with no care for the morrow or for the next meal. Karl was indeed a simpleton. The days and the weeks and the years went by, and Karl still wandered, planting the acorns as he went. He never retraced his steps, but went on and on, down new roads, new avenues, new boulevards, into new countries. He never was curious to see how his work was faring. He was too simple to think of that. He had been told what he must do in order to be useful in the world; that was enough. The Power that watches over little acorns and great oaks, over simpletons and wise men, would take care of the work which Karl had begun. Mile after mile he traversed, country after country he visited; the years passed over his head, silvering his hair and bending still more his tall frame. As Karl grew older the burden on his shoulders became lighter to carry; but very gradually. The sack made from the Dryad’s mantle must have had magic woven in its tissue. For that first stock of acorns from the old oak tree lasted throughout the entire pilgrimage, during the whole of Karl’s life, so that he had no need to return to the unfriendly village for a fresh supply. On and on he went, and behind him for miles and miles through the countries and the years stretched rows of little oak saplings, of various heights and sizes, and full of promise,--the beginning of a wonderful arched avenue. For after he had passed out of sight, the people of every village, remembering his strange words and his wild story, began to think of him as a holy man, and to look upon the acorns which he had planted as holy things. So the sprouts were cherished carefully and more carefully as the years went by. Now at last, after many years, Karl was grown old and feeble, and the acorns were few in the bottom of the Dryad’s green sack; and he knew that his pilgrimage was almost over. He was many, many miles from home, and for the first time he thought of returning, longing for the Tree, his friend. He was now bowed and white-haired. A snowy beard descended to his waist; his garments were in rags and his shoes were mere strips of leather bound around his bare feet. But he was very happy, for he knew his work was done.