tout horse,
with hollow back, and a white mane which reached nearly down to his
breast--was drawing the harrow. As they passed the manor-house
farmer's, a whirlwind raised a pillar of dust.

"My mother says," Ivo began, "that evil spirits fight in a whirlwind,
and if you get in between them they throttle you."

"We're going to have a gust to-day," said Nat: "you'd better stay at
home."

"No, no; let me go with you," said Ivo, taking Nat's rough hand.

Nat had prophesied aright. Before they had been in the field an hour, a
terrible hailstorm was upon them. In a moment the horse was unhooked
from the harrow, Nat mounted on his back with Ivo before him, and they
galloped homeward, Ivo nestled timidly in Nat's bosom. "The evil
spirits in the whirlwind have brought this storm, haven't they?" he
asked.

"There are no evil spirits," said Nat, "only wicked men."

Strange! Ivo began to laugh aloud for fear, so that Nat became very
uncomfortable. Fright and pleasure are so nearly related that Ivo had
almost an agreeable tingle in the trembling of his soul.

Pale as death, and with his teeth chattering, Ivo came home. His mother
put him to bed, partly to conceal him from his father, who disliked to
see the delicate child that was to be a parson going into the fields.
He had not been in bed many minutes before Nat came with a phial and
gave him a few drops, which threw him into a gentle sleep; and in an
hour he awoke as sound as ever.

Never, perhaps, was Ivo happier than on one memorable day which he was
permitted to spend entirely in the field without coming home to dinner.
At early morning, long before matins, he went out with Nat and the dun,
the latter dragging the plough to Valentine's largest and farthest
field, which is far away toward Isenbrug, in the Worm Valley. It was
the opening of a beautiful day in August; a little rain had fallen
over-night, and a fresh breath of life passed over the trees and
grasses. The red clover was winking at the coming sun, which could not
be seen, though it was broad daylight: he had risen behind the hills of
Hohenzollern.

The plough grasped well: a refreshing steam arose from the brown, dewy
soil. The dun seemed to make little exertion, and Nat guided the plough
as easily as if it had been the tiller of a floating skiff. Every thing
around was bright and clear, and men and beasts might be seen here and
there, working cheerily for their daily bread.

When the matin bell rang at