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How many go forth, prompted by good intentions, but let little hindrances turn them from their way–entirely from their way of life! In front of the house Christopher met other woodmen whom he knew, and– “You are stirring betimes!” “Prices are good to-day!” “But little comes to the market now!” was the cry from all sides. Christopher wanted to say that all that did n’t concern him, but he was ashamed to confess what his design was, and an inward voice told him he must not lie. Without answering he joined the rest, and wended his way to the market; and on the road he thought: “There are Peter, and Godfrey, and John, who have seven times your means, and not one of them, I’m sure, would think of doing anything of this kind; why will you be the kind-hearted fool? Stay! what matters it what others do or leave undone? Every man shall answer for himself. Yes, but go to market–it is better it should be so; yes, certainly, much better: sell your wood–who knows? perhaps he does n’t want it–and take him the proceeds, or at least the greater portion. But is the wood still yours? You have, properly speaking, already given it away; it has only not been taken from your keeping….”

There are people who cannot give; they can only let a thing be taken either by the hand of chance, or by urgency and entreaty. Christopher had such fast hold of possession, that it was only after sore wrestling that he let go; and yet his heart was kind, at least to-day it was so disposed, but the tempter whispered: “It is not easy to find so good-natured a fellow as you. How readily would you have given, had the man been in want, and your good intention must go for the deed.” Still, on the other hand, there was something in him which made opposition,–an echo from those hours, when, in the still night, he was driving hither,–and it burned in him like sacred fire, and it said, “You must now accomplish what you intended. Certainly no one knows of it, and you are responsible to no one; but you know of it yourself, and One above you knows, and how shall you be justified?” And he said to himself, “I ‘ll stand by this: look, it is just nine; if no one ask the price of your wood until ten o’clock, until the stroke of ten,–until it has done striking, I mean; if no one ask, then the wood belongs to Professor Gellert: but if a buyer come, then it is a sign that you need not–should not give it away. There, that’s all settled. But how? what means this? Can you make your good deed dependent on such a chance as this? No, no; I don’t mean it. But yet–yet–only for a joke, I ‘ll try it.”

Temptation kept him turning as it were in a circle, and still he stood with an apparently quiet heart by his wagon in the market. The people who heard him muttering in this way to himself looked at him with wonder, and passed by him to another wagon, as though he had not been there. It struck nine. Can you wait patiently another hour? Christopher lighted his pipe, and looked calmly on, while this and that load was driven off. It struck the quarter, half-hour, three-quarters. Christopher now put his pipe in his pocket; it had long been cold, and his hands were almost frozen; all his blood had rushed to his heart. Now it struck the full hour, stroke after stroke. At first he counted; then he fancied he had lost a stroke and miscalculated. Either voluntarily or involuntarily, he said to himself, when it had finished striking, “You ‘re wrong; it is nine, not ten.” He turned round that he might not see the dial, and thus he stood for some time, with his hands upon the wagon-rack, gazing at the wood. He knew not how long he had been thus standing, when some one tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “How much for the load of wood?”