pipe and waiting to see whom God would send him for a master.
One evening though, when the village folk were standing in front of the empty tavern and wondering who would be their next inn-keeper, the priest came up, and bowing deeply—for the mayor was there, and as he is a great man it is no sin even for a priest to bow to him—began to say what a good thing it would be if a meeting could be arranged to close up the tavern for good and all. He, the priest, would write a letter with his own hand and send it to the bishop. And this would be a splendid, beautiful thing, and beneficial to the whole village.
The old men and the women answered that what the priest had said was the honest truth, but the miller thought the priest's idea absolutely worthless and even insulting.
"What a wicked priest!" he thought with indignation. "There's a friend for you! Just you wait a bit, though, holy Father, ou'll see what'll happen."
"You are quite right, Father," he answered in oily tones, "your letter will do a great deal of good, only I don't know whom it will help most, you or the village. You know yourself—don't take it ill—that you always send to the city for vodka and so you don't need the tavern. It would be very nice for you to have the bishop read your letter and praise it."
