Blasi was not afraid.  He was proud to show Veronica that she might count on his courage, where he had only the forces of nature to contend against, and not the treacherous tricks of Jost.

Veronica had a hard battle with herself that night.  “Must I do it?” she asked herself again and again, and each time her heart revolted and she groaned aloud, “I cannot, oh, I cannot!”

Then the image of Gertrude rose before her, pale and suffering, and she heard her heart-rending words, “If I could only see him once more!” Veronica could not sleep, nor could she come to any decision.

Next morning it seemed that Blasi was to be taken at his word, and his boast of being ready for service, no matter what the weather might be, was to be put to the proof; for it stormed furiously and the wind blew so fiercely when he left the house, that he could scarcely make way against it.  The half-frozen snow stung and blinded him, but it did not deter him.  He forced his way onwards, and though it was still dark and he could not see one step before him, he went on as confidently and unhesitatingly as if there were no chance of his losing his way.  And he did not lose it.  When day dawned he found himself close to the Valley-bridge, in spite of deep snows and stinging sleet.

“You are early,” said the post master, who was busy sorting his letters by lamplight.  Blasi answered that he had to be at work by sunrise, and having delivered the bag and received the pay for it, he started for home again.  He had scarcely gone twenty steps when the post-master called after him,

“Hulloa!  Blasi, you can do a neighborly kindness if you will, and it won’t cost you anything;” and he handed Blasi a letter.

“It is for the old Miller’s widow, over there.  Jost fetches her letters himself, usually; it is marked “To be called for,” but he’ll be glad to be spared the walk such a day as this.  You can tell him he needn’t come to-day, you know.”

Blasi took the letter.  The Miller’s widow was an old deaf woman, who lived quite alone, in a little, tumble-down cottage, just off the road, on a lonely hillside.  The foot-path that Blasi took, led near her dwelling.  The woman was an aunt of Jost’s, and had known better days when her husband was alive; but now she had fallen into poverty, and had grown sour and bitter, and would have nothing to do with the rest of the world.  Blasi worked his way to her hut, through the deep, pathless snow.  As he approached the door, he took the letter from his pocket, and looked at the address.

“Heavens and earth and all the rest of it!  It is from Dietrich!” he cried out.  “I didn’t copy all his work at school for nothing.  I know his hand-writing as well as I know anything!”

He talked aloud in his excitement, as he stood hammering away at the door, which the old woman was not very prompt in opening.  At last he opened it himself, and came stamping into the room.  The widow was sitting on a bench by the stove, picking wool.  She had not heard his knocks, and she stared at him with amazement.  He explained how he came by the letter, but she was too deaf to understand him.  Then he held the letter close under her eyes, and shouted in her ear,