dress which had been spoiled by the baron’s blood, she bought her a new silk one, and seasoned her gift with a very wise piece of advice—worth, at least, three new dresses. But that was not all. Miss Jenny’s name was aIso mentioned even in the family records; for the old Baroness deposited the dress, stained with the noble blood of the Poc̓ernickýs, in the family archives for an eternal remembrance. The new dress was so much valued by Jenny, that whenever she put it on, she did not so much as cast a glance at herself in the looking glass—which is no small thing to say concerning a young lady not altogether unconscious of her own charms.
In every other respect the same freezing tone of intercourse prevailed at Labutín Castle as before, and Jenny heard as few really kind words addressed to her as she had been accustomed to from the beginning.
We should have to fill volumes with erotic rhapsodies were we to describe what went on for those two years between Baron Mundy and Jenny. We therefore leave to your imagination to fancy how this part of the plot was enacted behind the scenes. You must now please to step with us upon the open scene, where a very important climax of the drama has been reached, which will quite satisfactorily enlighten us, and explain what we have skipped over.
The scene is the priest’s house at Záluz̓í; the time—a fragrant evening in May; the dramatis personæ—friend Cvok, spinster Naninka, and the foundling; the clue—“The moment Cvok read the address on the letter, he fell helplessly on the chair near him, and dropped his head and arms. Naninka did not utter a word.”
After a while Cvok scratched his left arm above the elbow, and fastened his eyes once more on the address
