Reverend Curtis Hartman turned and ran out of the office.  At the door he stopped, and after looking up and down the deserted street, turned again to George Willard.  “I am delivered.  Have no fear.”  He held up a bleeding fist for the young man to see.  “I smashed the glass of the window,” he cried.  “Now it will have to be wholly replaced.  The strength of God was in me and I broke it with my fist.”

THE TEACHER

Snow lay deep in the streets of Winesburg.  It had begun to snow about ten o’clock in the morning and a wind sprang up and blew the snow in clouds along Main Street.  The frozen mud roads that led into town were fairly smooth and in places ice covered the mud.  “There will be good sleighing,” said Will Henderson, standing by the bar in Ed Griffith’s saloon.  Out of the saloon he went and met Sylvester West the druggist stumbling along in the kind of heavy overshoes called arctics.  “Snow will bring the people into town on Saturday,” said the druggist.  The two men stopped and discussed their affairs.  Will Henderson, who had on a light overcoat and no overshoes, kicked the heel of his left foot with the toe of the right.  “Snow will be good for the wheat,” observed the druggist sagely.

Young George Willard, who had nothing to do, was glad because he did not feel like working that day.  The weekly paper had been printed and taken to the post office Wednesday evening and the snow began to fall on Thursday.  At eight o’clock, after the morning train had passed, he put a pair of skates in his pocket and went up to Waterworks Pond but did not go skating.  Past the pond and along a path that followed Wine Creek he went until he came to a grove of beech trees.  There he built a fire against the side of a log and sat down at the end of the log to think.  When the snow began to fall and the wind to blow he hurried about getting fuel for the fire.

The young reporter was thinking of Kate Swift, who had once been his school teacher.  On the evening before he had gone to her house to get a book she wanted him to read and had been alone with her for an hour.  For the fourth or fifth time the woman had talked to him with great earnestness and he could not make out what she meant by her talk.  He began to believe she must be in love with him and the thought was both pleasing and annoying.

Up from the log he sprang and began to pile sticks on the fire.  Looking about to be sure he was alone he talked aloud pretending he was in the presence of the woman, “Oh, you’re just letting on, you know you are,” he declared.  “I am going to find out about you.  You wait and see.”

The young man got up and went back along the path toward town leaving the fire blazing in the wood.  As he went through the streets the skates clanked in his pocket.  In his own room in the New Willard House he built a fire in the stove and lay down on top of the bed.  He began to have lustful thoughts and pulling down the shade of the window closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall.  He took a pillow into his arms and embraced it thinking first of the school teacher, who by her words had stirred something within him, and later of Helen White, the slim daughter of the town banker, with whom he had been for a long time half in love.