re of St. Peter in the church," said the
sacristan, who had seen him without his hat. "He was like it in every
respect," he repeated, "except that he had no keys in his hand." From
the meadow he had cut across Stropov's clover-field, where the Kratki's
cow, which had somehow got loose, made a rush at him; in order to defend
himself he struck at it with his stick (and from that time, you can ask
the Kratki family if it is not true, the cow gave fourteen pints of milk
a day, whereas they used to have the greatest difficulty in coaxing four
pints from it).

At the other end of the village the old man had asked the miller's
servant-girl which was the way to Lehota, and Erzsi had told him, upon
which he had started on the footpath up the mountains. Erzsi said she
was sure, now she came to think of it, that he had a glory round his
head.

Why, of course it must have been St. Peter! Why should it not have been?
There was a time when he walked about on earth, and there are many
stories told still as to all he had done then. And what had happened
once could happen again. The wonderful news spread from house to house,
that God had sent down from Heaven a sort of red-linen tent, to keep the
rain off the priest's little sister, and had chosen St. Peter himself
for the mission. Thereupon followed a good time for the child, she
became quite the fashion in the village. The old women began to make
cakes for her, also milk puddings, and various other delicacies. His
reverence had nothing to do but answer the door all day, and receive
from his visitors plates, dishes, or basins wrapped up in clean cloths.
The poor young priest could not make out what was going on in his new
parish.

"Oh, your reverence, please, I heard your little sister had come, so
I've brought her a trifle for her dinner; of course it might be better,
but it is the best such poor folks as we can give. Our hearts are good,
your reverence, but our flour might be better than it is, for that
good-for-nothing miller burned it a bit the last time--at least, that
part of it which he did not keep for his own use. May I look at the
little angel? They say she's a little beauty."

Of course his reverence allowed them all to look at her in turn, to pat
her and smooth her hair; some of them even kissed her tiny feet.

The priest was obliged to turn away now and then to hide the tears of
gratitude. He reproached himself, too, for his hard thoughts of the good
villagers. "How