Early in the morning my little son is wont to lead me hither and then returns to the village, little mite as he is the wife of the scrivener looks after him, and in the evening he comes and fetches me home again.

Whatever is given me by charitable wayfarers I share with my poor hostess, who is poorer than any beggar.

Yesterday something happened.

It was this.

I was sitting outside there at the end of the bridge and as I had not heard a human voice about me for a long time and it was extremely hot, slumber weighed heavily upon me.