knowledge came to her that she had lost the love and support of her father; she was alarmed, crushed, but she lacked the strength of will to go to him, and beg for pardon and help. To thrust herself into her father’s presence was impossible to her; she was ashamed. She knew how to be genuinely ashamed, because she was a genuine woman, and she was ashamed of their poverty, of her husband; and with that crimson blush of shame she would not appear before her father.
Her father was her ideal of all that was beautiful and noble; to have him turn from her in contempt would have killed her. So she shunned him, and ran away whenever she caught sight of that honest blouse into which as a child she had delighted to nestle. And so, gradually she grew used to never seeing him. Her shallow mind was incapable of cherishing the memories of brighter days. At last she hardly remembered what it was like to have a father.
For four long years Svejnoha had not seen his daughter; not even when he assumed the dignity of a grandfather.
* * *
It was not a very cosey room into which—through a single pane decorated by Jack Frost—the light struggled to enter. It was a dark little room, bare and cold, and in it sat Nanka, the tears running down her pale, thin cheeks.
This sixth of December was not a happy one for Nanka. Its cold breath seemed to chill her soul and paralyze her heart. The sixth of December! How white, and fresh, and beautiful it was! and yet it brought her only pain. Ever since morning Tonik had been prattling about the glorious St. Nicholas, who was to come down from heaven that day. He had heard the story from other children, who spoke of the saint in hushed voices, looking about furtively, lest his priestly robe be near, or the bell announcing his arrival be heard.
With his chubby hands holding fast to her petticoat Tonik had told the wonderful news to his mother. And she listened with an aching heart. For well she knew that St. Nicholas would not visit her child!
Suddenly a bright thought occurred to her: on the table lay her husband’s leather wallet, thin enough, but not quite empty: suppose she should spend only a few pennies on things for Tonik, and take them to her father, begging him to visit her child, too. But no; she could not go! How could she look her father in the face?
Hukac came in and sat down to his supper—a slice of black bread. He did not ask why she wept, why the room was dark, nor why Tonik crouched in the farthest corner of the room with wide open eyes watching the door. Having finished his supper, he lighted the little, smoking lamp. Tonik, busy with his thoughts, still crouched in the corner, his head thrust deep into his shoulders, and his eyes glowing with a clearer light than that made by the poor little lamp upon the table.
The room was very still. Nanka lay on the bed with her eyes hidden; she could not bear to look at Tonik; he seemed to be the voice of her conscience, reproaching her for the past.
But Tonik still dreamed his wonderful dreams, while he waited with perfect faith for their fulfilment. Not for a moment did he doubt.
It was growing late; the sky was full of stars, and wintry peace rested upon the earth. In the silence of the room there was something mysterious, as if some sorcerer were about to perform there his magic rites. From time to time Nanka sighed; Hukac sat by the table with his head resting on his arms. Tonik waited.
Suddenly, from his corner there came an exclamation, half uttered, but heard both by Nanka on the bed and by Hukac at the table.
“The bell!” whispered Tonik, but he did not stir. Hukac looked at him in surprise, while Nanka buried her head still deeper in the pillow.
There was a noise outside the door, then three knocks and the sound of a bell Nanka, pale, with parted lips and eyes red from weeping, sat up and stared at the
