irst beam of sunlight came glancing
through the window-space. Above the rivulet's silky glimmer, a
transparent mist lay steaming, while trees and herbage alike were
passing through that curiously inert stage when at any moment (so one
fancied) they might give themselves a shake, and burst into song, and
in keys intelligible to the soul alone, set forth the wondrous mystery
of their existence.

"What a good man he is!" the old woman whispered plaintively as she
gazed at the deacon's gigantic frame. Whereafter, as though reading
aloud from a book invisible to my sight, she proceeded quietly and
simply to relate the story of his wife.

"You see," she went on "his lady committed a certain sin with a certain
man; and folk remarked this, and, after setting the husband on to the
couple, derided him--yes, him, our Demid!--for the reason that he
persisted in forgiving the woman her fault. At length the jeers made
her take to her room and him to liquor, and for two years past he has
been drinking, and soon is going to be deprived of his office. One who
scarcely drank at all, my poor husband, used to say: 'Ah, Demid, yield
not to these folk, but live your own life, and let theirs be theirs,
and yours, yours.'"

With the words, tears welled from the old woman's dim, small eyes, and
became merged with the folds and wrinkles on her grief-stained cheeks.
And in the presence of that little head, a head shaking like a dead
leaf in the autumn time, and of those kindly features so worn with age
and sorrow, my eyes fell, and I felt smitten with shame to find that,
on searching my soul for at least a word of consolation to offer to the
poor fellow-mortal before me, I could discover none that seemed
suitable.

But at length there recurred to my mind some strange words which I had
encountered in I know not what antique volume--words which ran:

"Let not the servants of the Gods lament but, rather, rejoice, in that
weeping and lamentation grieve both the Gods and mankind."

Thereafter, I muttered confusedly:

"It is time that I was going."

"What?" was her hasty exclamation, an exclamation uttered as though the
words had affrighted her. Whereafter, with quivering lips, she began
hesitantly and uncertainly to fumble in her bodice.

"No, I have no need of money," I interposed. "Only, if you should be so
willing, give me a piece of bread."

"You have no need of money?" she re-echoed dubiously.

"No, none. For that matter, of what us