“My brother is there no longer,” said Frank, “he is at the farm house, and my parents are at the pension house; they are there just as my grandfather used to be, and I should like to see the place again.”
It was true that Frank began to yearn for home, never more to quit it, for he thought that nothing could compare with the delight of dwelling where his grandfather had once been, that is to say, in the pension house or at the cemetery.
And so they went home, and the sun had already set when they came to Frishetts. When they set foot upon the village green a large number of people stood there and all were talking and pointing in the direction of the Loykas’ house. Here Frank involuntarily called to mind the people who came to the farmstead on the day when the funeral bell was tolled for his grandfather, and they were almost all the same people, and Vena was among them.
Frank and Staza halted, concealed themselves behind the trunk of a large linden and listened. Something said the mayor, something said the sexton Vanek, something said Vena, and the rest of the people filled up the gaps with questions.
“They have driven him out, they have worried him out of the pension house,” said Vena. “Truly they did well: was he not old? Had he not given everything to the young folks? Had he not stinted himself for them? Had he not passed sleepless
