I preferred to stop in the church and gaze at the fine rider on his horse.
And once, when we were on our way home and mother leading me by the hand (and I had always to take three steps for every one of hers), I raised my little head to her kind face and asked:
"Why does the man on horseback keep on standing against the wall up there? Why does he not ride out through the window into the street?"
Then mother answered:
"Because you put such childish questions and because it is only a statue, the statue of St. Martin, who was a soldier and a very charitable and pious man and is now in Heaven."
"And is the horse in Heaven too?" I asked.
"I will tell you all about St. Martin," said mother, "when we come to a nice place where we can sit down and rest."
And she led me on and I skipped along beside her. But I was very anxious for the resting-place and constantly cried out:
"Mother, here's a nice place!"
But she was not content until we came to the shady wood, where a flat, mossy stone stood; and then we sat down. Mother fastened her kerchief tighter round her head and was silent, as though she had forgotten her promise. I stared and stared at her lips and then peeped through the trees; and once or twice it appeared to me as though I had seen the grand horseman riding through the wood.