least had a baby of her own to lay on her knee, she would not have felt so utterly alone. Something soft and warm which belonged to her, and which she had a right to keep beside her. She had taken up little Kasza on her lap, and had tried to make her rest her curly dark head against her shoulder: but the child, impatient of the caresses, had struggled down again, and ran off to join her brother Kuba at a game of romps.
She had already rubbed and scoured each pot and pan till it shone again, and had set the supper to boil, so there was nothing further to do. She went and looked into the open shed where her husband was at work. His back was turned towards her, and the rough, rasping sound of his saw caused her footsteps to be unheard. She stood looking at him for a minute or two in silence, but made no further effort to attract his attention, then she turned away and went into the stables alongside.
The two small, lean horses had already laid down to rest their wearied limbs; the large speckled cow, more leisurely in her proceedings, was still chewing the fragrant heap of grass and clover before her. Magda flung her arms round the old cow's neck with a sudden movement of unwonted affection. She buried her face on its warm, soft shoulder, while a few heavy, burning, and utterly illogical tears rolled down on to the heap of fodder.
The animal arrested its chewing for a moment, and turned its large, soft eyes in gentle reproach upon her. "What was the meaning of this unnecessary burst of excitement? Why could she not go and eat her grass and clover in peace, and leave other people to do the same?" That is what this gaze seemed to say.
Magda took the hint, and returned to her former post on the garden bench.
No sound in the air reached her here save the faint rasp of the saw at intervals, and the buzzing of some score of vagabond bees, which had missed the grand flitting of the hives to their summer quarters in the forest, and coming back unawares to the place of their former residence, had found their colony vanished into thin air. Only the wooden stakes which had propped up the hives remained, and round these the outcasts circled in puzzled dismay, trying vainly to discover some clue to this mystery.
The heavy narcotic scent of the poppies filled the air, for the burning July sun had extracted their subtle essence during the day, and sent it floating all around.
Each of these brilliant flowers was a prison cell in which lay fettered a slave of the great god of sleep; but their master's enemy, the sun, had unwittingly set them free to hover aloft, wafting peace and repose to weary mortals and aching hearts.
This soothing influence was felt ere long by all the inmates of the little garden. The birds had stopped singing on the branches of the apple-trees; the bees no longer hurried in frenzied circles round the site of their lost home, but settled down contentedly to rest in clusters on the wooden stakes. Magda herself, after a while, felt an unwonted peace and quiet stealing over her. Her tears ceased to flow, and she leant back against the cottage wall. She closed her eyes, and presently was fast asleep.
She slept so soundly that she never heard any of the carts which passed by the road in front of the garden; the barking of a dog in a neighboring field did not disturb her; neither did she hear how Kuba and Kasza came running in later at the front wicket shouting and laughing, to disappear again behind the house.
Of course she never saw how a young man, with a fair moustache and in a soldier's dress, was coming along the high-road nearer and nearer; and she slept on even when, with graceful activity, he had vaulted over the garden-hedge and was standing before her. In fact she did not awake till just one second too late; for that was after this particularly impertinent young man had bent down and deposed a resounding salute on her cheek. Then she started to her feet, and stood confronting the culprit with bewildered indignation.
Scarcely did she recognize in the handsome and martial figure before her the boyish Danelo of three years ago; and when she had at last grasped the fact that this was indeed her old playmate, she did not feel the offence to be the more pardonable on that score. How could he dare? Such insolence! Such unheard-of audacity! And she a married woman!
"Don't be angry," said Danelo, trying to look contrite. "I really could not help it, and I forgot all about your being married. I was so happy to see the village again that I would have kissed the first woman I saw, whether asleep or awake—even old Katinka, if I had happened to see her first. Indeed I should."
This was hardly such a conciliatory argument as at first sight appeared; for though Magda was really very angry with
