over every song he knew of modern and of ancient date, every event consigned to verse, songs of comic character and sprightly pieces of music—then the evenings were gay indeed. Hither, too, from the village a few stray folk would come and form an audience. Hither also Frank led his young companion, with whom he esconsed himself somewhere in a corner and listened.
The narratives which specially pleased Frank and his parents, mostly dated from long winter evenings which include the whole circle of the marvellous, from fierce banditti to black dogs and white women, so that the young people were half dazed with fright if they had to find their way home across the courtyard or across the village green.
Such was the hospitality of the Loykas’ that they became proverbial. And these same Loykas treated their own father who was pensioned off upon a reserved share of the field produce, so badly that he did not even dare to draw water from their well!
In these chambers was also a constant guest—Vena, the general messenger, the half crazed man. If the Loykas had told him that they did not wish to have him any longer about the place, he would not have believed that they spoke in earnest, so thoroughly was he domesticated at their house.
Those chambers by the coach-house would no longer have been themselves if Vena had not been there. With him every one who entered them must
