It was so still and mild between the banks, where there was not the least current of air, that the curate grew quite warm with the exertion.  His boots adhered to the clay, in which they sank at every step; they came out with a ‘sock, sock.’  He now followed the marks of footsteps, planting his step where the weight of some carter or shepherd had pressed the mud down firm.  Where these failed he was attracted by a narrow grass-grown ridge, a few inches wide, between two sets of ruts.  In a minute he felt the ridge giving beneath him as the earth slipped into the watery ruts.  Next he crept along the very edge of the ditch, where the briars hooked in the tail of his black frock-coat, and an unnoticed projecting bough quietly lifted his shovel-hat off, but benevolently held it suspended, instead of dropping it in the mud.  Still he made progress, though slow; now with a giant stride across an exceptionally doubtful spot, now zigzagging from side to side.  The lane was long, and he seemed to make but little advance.  But there was a spirit in him not to be stayed by mud, or clay, or any other obstacle.  It is pleasant to see an enthusiast, whether right or wrong, in these cynical days.  He was too young to have acquired much worldly wisdom, but he was full of the high spirit which arises from thorough conviction and the sense of personal consecration conferred by the mission on the man.  He pushed on steadily till brought to a stop by a puddle, broad, deep, and impassable, which extended right across the lane, and was some six or eight yards long.  He tried to slip past at the side, but the banks were thick with thorns, and the brambles overhung the water; the outer bushes coated with adhesive mud.  Then he sounded the puddle with his stick as far as he could reach, and found it deep and the bottom soft, so that the foot would sink into it.  He considered, and looked up and down the lane.

The two women, of whose presence he was unconscious, watched him from the high and dry level of the meadow, concealed behind the bushes and the oaks.  They wore a species of smock frock gathered in round the waist by a band over their ordinary dress; these smock frocks had once been white, but were now discoloured with dirt and the weather.  They were both stout and stolid-looking, hardy as the trees under which they stood.  They were acorn picking, searching for the dropped acorns in the long rank grass by the hedge, under the brown leaves, on the banks, and in the furrows.  The boughs of the oak spread wide—­the glory of the tree is its head—­and the acorns are found in a circle corresponding with the outer circumference of the branches.  Some are still farther afield, because in falling they strike the boughs and glance aside.  A long slender pole leaning against the hedge was used to thrash the boughs within reach, and so to knock down any that remained.