Two little fair-haired children were walking in the road, carrying a can. “Where are you going, little ones?”
They stopped, looking suspiciously at him.
“Taking food to father?”
They assented hesitatingly—a little astonished that a strange gentleman should know it.
“Climb up here and I’ll give you a ride.” He helped them into the cart. “Where is father working?”
“At Brusted.”
“That’s over beyond the school, is it not?”
Thus went the conversation. A stupid, ignorant man asking and asking, as grown-up people always talk to children, and the little ones, who have such a lot of wisdom, consult each other quietly with their eyes, giving sparingly of it—as much as they think convenient.
Hand in hand they walked along beside a rushing brook when he put them down, and he turned his horse in the direction he wanted to go.
There was a prayer meeting that evening at his home. His sister Ingeborg was sitting by the old corner cupboard, following with a pale, ecstatic face and shining steel-blue eyes a shoemaker, who spoke of spiritual grace; then suddenly she rose herself to bear witness.