them when they heard them in chapel, and they talked about “those children” again all the way from chapel.
Krista was an orphan; she was now nine years old, and had no recollection of her parents. She was attached to the home of Venik’s father like the swallow’s nest which hung from the eaves, and which no one thought of pulling down. Venik’s father, perhaps, did not the least know why he had her at his house. It may have been because she was an orphan; or, perhaps, it may have been because of her sweet little voice. She was like that swallow’s nest under the cornice: no one pulled down that nest.
Venik’s father was sometimes known as the cottager, because there was another Riha in the village—a peasant proprietor—the brother of Riha the cottager. They also talked of Riha as Riha the widower, because Venik had already lost his mother.
When Krista began to sing behind the tree, Venik put down his violin, turned in the direction where sat the little songstress, beat time to her, nodded with his head, and was well satisfied. But when she had quite ended he roughly accosted her: “Krista, why are you not at school,” he said.
“Why are you not there too,” said Krista.
“I, indeed! I am twelve years old and belong to school no longer, but you are only nine.”
“I dont belong there either now,” retorted Krista, “and I wont go!”
