He was wonderful, but he was always a boy. He was glad to feel the
good horse under him, to grip the Tartar saddle with his knees, to
feel the air rush by his cheek.

Sometimes they met poor people staggering wearily afoot along the
road. Often Stanislaus checked his horse and lightly dismounted.

"Get up, get up, old father!" he would cry. "My legs are stiff from
the saddle. I want to walk."

And though a peasant might often be afraid to accept the favor from
a noble, or be surly and churlish, the folk never were so with
Stanislaus. Up climbed the old father into the saddle, and
Stanislaus stepped out by his side.

"God give your grace long years!" said the thankful old man.

"Long years!" cried Stanislaus. I want more than that. I want
eternity. I was born for greater things than long years."

And the old man would understand; for he was of the poor, and the
poor know more of this longing for heaven than do the rich. But he
looked almost with awe at this richly dressed noble boy who had
learned even now to value life so justly. Then it was easy for
Stanislaus to talk of heaven to the old man.

"Old father, in the barony of the Lord Jesus there is no poverty or
old age or weariness. Nor is there any difference of rank there as
here, for we shall all be great lords and castellans in heaven."