was not the same. At least it seemed to him as though he saw her to-day for the first time, and as though he had to speak to her for the first time.
Staza seated herself on her mother’s grave, and her eyes rested on the white iron figure of the Christus on the ruddy cross. After a moment or two she whispered rather than sang, “odpocinite v pokoiji verne dusicky.” (Rest in peace ye faithful spirits!)
But she did not finish her song. Something seemed to snap it asunder half-way, the second half remained unuttered.
And here Frank felt constrained: just as if he ought to finish in tears what Staza had left incomplete in her song, just as if he wronged her by his silence.
He posted himself before the wicket-gate in order that she might see him.
“Oh! Staza,” he said.
Staza rose from the ground, and half joyously half pensively approached the wicket-gate.
“I welcome thee, Frank,” said she.
“Oh! Staza will you open it for me,” said Frank.
Here Staza said archly, “Have you so soon forgotton how to open it?”
“I have not forgotten,” responded Frank, “but I have no longer the right unless you allow me.”
“You have it open!” said Staza.
