“Where are you going?” I inquired, in order to begin a conversation, after making the above observations.
“To the city!” was the curt and melancholy reply.
“You have chosen a bad time for your journey, because now sleighing is uncertain.”
He answered: “True; the road is bad but I couldn’t wait for a better one.”
“What could force you to make the journey now when it is so difficult to get along?”
“Threat of execution for debt. That doesn’t wait for weather,” said the old man sadly, looking up at me for the first time, with shy, grief-shadowed eyes.
This was my first glimpse of his face. It was wrinkled, and eaten out by misfortune, and made old before years had done so. Both his body and his manner indicated fewer years than his face.
“Who is such a cruel creditor as to drive you to the city in weather like this?”
“The parson!” said the old man sharply.
“The parson? You owe him so much then?” I inquired in astonishment.
“Only last year’s interest.”
“Only last year’s interest? Haven’t you been to him and asked him to wait?”
“Yes—several times.”
“Well, what does he say?”
“He was very angry and exclaimed: You’re stealing from me—you vagabond.” He didn’t have any pity when I begged him with tears in my eyes.
“I must say that you have a hard hearted parson. It wouldn’t hurt him to wait a little—anyway until
