During the few Sundays which had elapsed since his son’s wedding day several years seemed to have settled upon his head; to-day he felt as though in the flight of time those few years had been recalled. The harvesters and harvest women saluted him, smiled upon him, conversed with him, enquired of this and that, and old Loyka loved to converse. To-day he had been talking since early morning, he wished to compensate for the silence of several past weeks.
The harvesters were glad to go and seek employment at the Loykas’; here they halted first when they came to the village—Loyka might choose the stoutest of them all. Also to-day he made his selection. Every harvester called him “pantata,” and that pleased him; it was evident, he thought within himself, that they still accounted him somebody on the estate, and that they maintained the same behaviour to him as in times gone by.
In times gone by the harvesters were proud to boast of their respect and reverence for the Loykas. Where in all the neighbourhood was the harvest home held so merrily as at the Loykas’. The harvesters were proud of it, and used to pride themselves on account of it in comparison with other harvesters.
“Well, pantata, this summer we shall have a merry harvest,” said one harvester. “A new bride in the house—she will help it out.”
