nd out into the air,
as it was easy to do, because the house-door never was bolted. He had
nothing with him, he was barefooted, and his school-satchel was slung
behind him, as Findelkind of Arlberg's wallet had been five centuries
before. He took a little staff from the piles of wood lying about, and
went out on to the highroad, on his way to do Heaven's will. He was not
very sure--but that was because he was only nine years old and not very
wise--but Findelkind that was in heaven had begged for the poor: so
would he.

His parents were very poor, but he did not think of them as in want at
any time, because he always had his bowlful of porridge and as much
bread as he wanted to eat. This morning he had had nothing to eat: he
wished to be away before any one could question him.

It was still dusk in the fresh autumn morning; the sun had not risen
behind the glaciers of the Stubaythal, and the road was scarcely seen;
but he knew it very well, and he set out bravely, saying his prayers to
Christ and to St. Christopher and to Findelkind that was in heaven. He
was not in any way clear as to what he would do, but he thought he would
find some great thing to do somewhere lying like a jewel in the dust;
and he went on his way in faith, as Findelkind of Arlberg had done. His
heart beat high, and his head lost its aching pains, and his feet felt
light--as light as if there were wings to his ankles. He would not go to
Zirl, because Zirl he knew so well, and there could be nothing very
wonderful waiting there; and he ran fast the other way. When he was
fairly out from under the shadow of Martinswand he slackened his pace,
and saw the sun come up on his path and begin to redden the gray-green
water; and the early Eilwagen from Landeck, that had been lumbering
along all the night, overtook him. He would have run after it and called
out to the travellers for alms, but he felt ashamed: his father had
never let him beg, and he did not know how to begin. The Eilwagen rolled
on through the autumn mud, and that was one chance lost. He was sure
that the first Findelkind had not felt ashamed when he had knocked at
the first castle-gate.

By and by, when he could not see Martinswand by turning his head back
ever so, he came to an inn that used to be a post-house in the old days
when men travelled only by road. A woman was feeding chickens in the
bright clear red of the cold daybreak. Findelkind timidly held out his
hand. "For the poor," he