le, which I had almost clean
forgotten, hung dusty on the wall; a ray of morning light glittered
upon the strings. It struck a chord in my heart. "Yes," I said, "come
here, thou faithful instrument! Our kingdom is not of this world!"

So I took the fiddle from the wall, and leaving behind me the
account-book, dressing-gown, slippers, pipes, and parasol, I walked
out of my cottage, as poor as when I entered it, and down along the
gleaming high-road.

I looked back often and often; I felt very strange, sad, and yet
merry, like a bird escaping from his cage. And when I had walked some
distance I took out my fiddle and sang--

"I wander on, in God confiding,
For all are His, wood, field, and fell;
O'er earth and skies He still presiding,
For me will order all things well."

The castle, the garden, and the spires of Vienna vanished behind me
in the morning mists; far above me countless larks exulted in the air;
thus, past gay villages and hamlets and over green hills, I wandered
on toward Italy.

CHAPTER III

Here was a puzzle! It had never occurred to me that I did not know my
way. Not a human being was to be seen in the quiet early morning
whom I could question, and right before me the road divided into many
roads, which went on far, far over the highest mountains, as though to
the very end of the world--so that I actually grew giddy as I looked
along them.

At last a peasant appeared, going to church I fancy, as it was Sunday,
in an old-fashioned coat with large silver buttons, and swinging a
long malacca cane with a massive silver head, which sparkled from afar
in the sunlight. I immediately asked him very politely, "Can you tell
me which is the road to Italy?" The fellow stood still, stared at me,
thrust out his under lip reflectively, and stared at me again. I began
once more: "To Italy, where oranges grow." "What do I care for your
oranges!" said the peasant, and walked on sturdily. I should have
credited the fellow with more politeness, for he really looked very
fine.

What was to be done? Turn round and go back to my native village? Why,
the folks would have jeered me, and the boys would have run after me
crying, "Oh, indeed! you're welcome back from 'out in the world.'
How does it look 'out in the world?' Haven't you brought us some
ginger-nuts from 'out in the world?'" The Porter with the High Roman
nose, who certainly was familiar with Universal History, used often to
say to me, "