t no

fountains. Well?”

“Well! About two leagues beyond the summit of that hill above

the village.”

“Good. When do you cease to work?”

“At sunset.”

“Will you wake me before departing? I have walked two nights

without resting. Let me finish my pipe, and I shall sleep like a

child. Will you wake me?”

“Surely.”

The wayfarer smoked his pipe out, put it in his breast, slipped

off his great wooden shoes, and lay down on his back on the heap

of stones. He was fast asleep directly.

As the road mender plied his dusty labour, and the hail-clouds,

rolling away, revealed bright bars and streaks of sky which were

responded to by silver gleams upon the landscape, the little man

(who wore a red cap now, in place of his blue one) seemed

fascinated by the figure on the heap of stones. His eyes were so

often turned towards it, that he used his tools mechanically, and,

one would have said, to very poor account. The bronze face, the

shaggy black hair and beard, the coarse woollen red cap, the