to the hollow tree; and when Riha brought him his breakfast next day, where then were Venik and Krista?
In the house an alarm was raised. No one knew aught about Venik; none of the servants had an idea what had become of him. And in the village people laughed at Riha and told him that now he would have to pasture the sheep alone.
And so Venik and Krista threw themselves upon the world. Very early, when above the tops of the old oak wood crept the first rays of dawning, he and she stood prepared for the journey. They stood before the hollow tree as by their sanctuary, as if it were their true home. Thither from the cottage they had fled with light hearts: now that they had to flee from it they felt a load upon their hearts. Here was their church in which they had been both angels and pious listeners. Perhaps that tree had roots even in their hearts. And certainly even the flowerets which grew upon the hillside had in their hearts both soil and sustenance. Now they felt a load upon their breasts. And they knelt beside that little tomb in which, many a long day since, they had buried the sweetbriar, the willow wands, and the sweet marjoram, and of which they had made Venik’s mother.
“Venik, thou weepest,” said Krista, and wept also.
“Krista,” said Venik, “if in the world we ever fall sick, we will come here to get well.”
