before
the moon had set in winter; and many a ditcher and woodcutter and
ploughman on his way to work used to enter and say a short prayer
before beginning the labour of the long day.

Now it happened that in Spain there was a farm-labourer named Isidore,
who went daily to his early prayer, whatever the weather might be. His
fellow-workmen were slothful and careless, and they gibed and jeered at
his piety, but when they found that their mockery had no effect upon
him, they spoke spitefully of him in the hearing of the master, and
accused him of wasting in prayer the time which he should have given to
his work.

When the farmer heard of this he was displeased, and he spoke to
Isidore and bade him remember that true and faithful service was better
than any prayer that could be uttered in words.

"Master," replied Isidore, "what you say is true, but it is also true
that no time is ever lost in prayer. Those who pray have God to work
with them, and the ploughshare which He guides draws as goodly and
fruitful a furrow as another."

This the master could not deny, but he resolved to keep a watch on
Isidore's comings and goings, and early on the morrow he went to the
fields.

In the sharp air of the autumn morning he saw this one and that one of
his men sullenly following the plough behind the oxen, and taking
little joy in the work. Then, as he passed on to the rising ground, he
heard a lark carolling gaily in the grey sky, and in the hundred-acre
where Isidore was engaged he saw to his amazement not one plough but
three turning the hoary stubble into ruddy furrows. And one plough was
drawn by oxen and guided by Isidore, but the two others were drawn and
guided by Angels of heaven.

When next the master spoke to Isidore it was not to reproach him, but
to beg that he might be remembered in his prayers.

Now the one great longing of Isidore's life was to visit that hallowed
and happy country beyond the sea in which our Lord lived and died for
us. He longed to gaze on the fields in which the Shepherds heard the
song of the Angels, and to know each spot named in the Gospels. All
that he could save from his earnings Isidore hoarded up, so that one
day, before he was old, he might set out on pilgrimage to the Holy
Land. It took many years to swell the leather bag in which he kept his
treasure; and each coin told of some pleasure, or comfort, or necessary
which he had denied himself.

Now, when at length the bag