Page - 155 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

favour, that I need not eat the bacon. For indeed I don’t like bacon.” “You don’t know what’s good,” said the driver, laughing, and relieved me of my difficulty. At last, we began to go downhill; and now the cart jolted over the burning stones and shook the invalid out of her sleep; and the sun burnt into her marrow; and she felt chilled all the same. Steve muttered: “Tom of the Footpath must be the devil of a good doctor to make a drive like this worth while. Hold up, Sorrel: we’ve not much further to go.” It was late in the afternoon when we reached the valley and stopped at the little house where Tom of the Footpath lived. We carried mother into the musty, stuffy parlour, in which all the little windows were tight shut. There we let her down on the bench and asked for Tom. A grumpy old woman answered that Tom was not there. “We can see that,” said Steve, “but might we ask where he is?” “Can’t say.” “When’s he coming in?” “Maybe he won’t stay out long, maybe he won’t be back till night, maybe he’s gone to the ale-house.” The old woman left the room; and there we sat. My mother drew a deep breath. Steve went after the old woman and asked her for a spoonful of hot soup for the invalid. “Where should I get hot soup from at this time of day? The fire’s been out on the hearth this long since.” That was the answer. Thereupon the driver himself set to and lit the fire, looked for milk and boiled it. Mother ate only a little of the soup and pushed the bowl to us, so that we should have some warm food too. When that was done, Steve gave the woman a silver ten-kreuzer for the milk and for the hay which the sorrel ate. After a time, during which it turned quite dark in the parlour, once or twice, because clouds were passing in front of the sun outside, Tom of the Footpath