where an
old man on a ladder assured us in a broken singsong, like the
Scandinavian of the Middle West, that indeed Nature did mean us to climb
that hill, and that by that road only could we reach the Promised Land of
supper and bed.

And the rain fell and the wind blew, and Colin and I trudged on through
the murk and the mire, I silently recalling and commenting on certain
passages in certain modern writers in praise of walking in the rain. At
last the hill came to an end--we learned afterward that it was a good
mile high--and we stumbled out on to some upland wilderness, unlit by
star or window. Then we found ourselves descending again, and at last dim
shapes of clustered houses began to appear, and the white phantom of a
church. We could rather feel than see the houses, for the night was so
dark, and, though here was evidently a village, there was no sign of a
light anywhere, not so much as a bright keyhole; nothing but hushed,
shuttered shapes of deeper black in the general darkness. So English
villages must have looked, muffled up in darkness, at the sound of the
Conqueror's curfew.

"Surely, they can't all be in bed by seven o'clock?" I said.

"There doesn't seem much to stay up for," laughed Colin.

At length we suspected, rather than saw, a gleam of light at the rear of
one of the shrouded shapes we took for houses, and, stumbling toward it,
we heard cheerful voices, German voices; and, knocking at a back door,
received a friendly summons to enter. Then, out of the night that covered
us, suddenly sprang a kitchen full of light and a family at supper, kind
German folk, the old people, the younger married couple, and the
grandchildren, and a big dog vociferously taking care of them. A lighted
glimpse, a few hearty words of direction, and we were out in the night
again; for though, indeed, this was Dutch Hollow, its simple microcosm
did not include an hotel. For that we must walk on another half-mile or
so. O those country half-miles! So on we went again, and soon a lighted
stoop flashed on our right. At last! I mounted the steps of a veranda,
and, before knocking, looked in at the window. Then I didn't knock, but
softly called Colin, who was waiting in the road, and together we looked
in. At a table in the centre of a barely furnished, brightly-lit room, an
old woman and a young man were kneeling in prayer. Colin and I stood a
moment looking at them, and then softly took the road again.

But the inn, or rath