"The Lord God feeds and clothes his servants," says the Slavic proverb; and the servants of God are men of kindly hearts, throughout whose lives the guiding hand and love of God is as clearly seen as in the destiny of the children of darkness may be traced the result of sin and evil.

This world is so wisely regulated and so skilfully directed that all the good done here bears good fruit by reason of natural causes; while evil carries with it not only its punishment, but in addition the principles and germs of evil. Often the inevitable results of these two great causes are for a time invisible to the eyes of men; a day comes, however, when one sees appear upon the surface what has been fermenting in the vast depths. Often too the great results of good and evil, done here below, are not made manifest in this world; the justice of God, hindering us from seeing them, allows us only to have a presentiment of them. There is one thing certain,--that wherever in this life one meets with faith, love, and devotion, he can be sure also of finding peace of mind and heart, superhuman strength and power.

There is in this world nothing like this for directing the will and making it a power. Love has insight, spiritual presentiments, an innate intelligence, an instinctive knowledge, which amount to infallibility.

Wherever love is found, and under whatever form it appears, when one meets it, one recognizes his king. The animal, raised and animated by love, becomes human. Maternal tenderness, devotion, and fidelity ennoble it. There is nothing sadder in this world, nothing more repulsive, than a life blasted by selfishness and hatred, by the voluntary separation of one being from the duties and interests of others.

The world is framed and bound together by this great tie of love, which makes it one, entire and lasting; and the heart in which no love exists is excluded from the family of God.

Love had sufficed to transform, to strengthen, to rejuvenate Iermola, this weak and poor old man; it had come to the brink of the tomb to give him a new life and to give him more strength than he had had in his youth. You ask me perhaps why I have chosen a being so small and so weak as the representative of a feeling so sublime and generous. But he who has love in his heart is never either small or weak. As for the rest, I shall here repeat the Latin axiom, Natura maxime miranda in minimis. This truth was not made to be perceived only by the microscopic world of learned men and naturalists; in the moral world there are very many opportunities to apply it.

But to return to the moment when that fine potter's clay was found at Popielnia,--a great event in the life of our old man,--everything came to him abundantly and without trouble; everything appeared easy to him, although neither the village people nor strangers could understand how an old and almost decrepit man had been able to learn a trade of which until then he had been entirely ignorant. But with man, will is everything; and when a powerful feeling directs it, to what elevated aim may not the two attain?

The clay was tried at Malyczki, where Procope's pottery kiln was all ready for use; and when Procope had turned a couple of pots out of the new clay, after marking them, he put them in among his others. As soon as the kiln was cold, they hastened to take out the pots and examine them, and found two which were white, pretty, light, and resonant, quite different from those made of the Malyczki clay; the sight of them alone threw Procope and all who were present into ecstasies of delight.

Neither of them had cracked during the firing, and when they were both taken to Popielnia and put in the widow's cottage, every one in the village came to see the wonderful things; and Iermola, perfectly beside himself, hugged the two jugs and wept.

After this it was easy enough to come to an understanding with Procope with regard to the apprenticeship to the trade, the construction of the kiln, setting up the wheel, and other necessary implements; the most difficult part of the business was conciliating the terrible steward Hudny, whose permission was indispensable before digging the clay or building the kiln in the garden. Fortunately, the steward's wife proposed to make something by this new industry. One of the new pots was given her to try; and after that Hudny put no more insurmountable obstacles in the way of the manufacturers. Not being willing, however, to depart from his long-established custom, he gave Iermola to understand that he would be obliged to pay him cash if he expected to obtain permission to work at his trade. So many obligations, so many necessary expenses now overwhelmed the future potter,--who was still unacquainted with his future trade,--that he scarcely knew how he should be able to undertake it. Procope was not willing to give him his time for nothing; the establishment, the tiles, the different instruments, and the digging of the clay were all sources of expense. The poor man's room was now too small; he had to repair, as well as he could, another one, which was next to it. All these preparations caused much loss of time; and the little supply of money was diminished and exhausted with frightful rapidity.

So before the poor man could be in a condition to make anything by his new business, he was compelled to go considerably into debt. Once he thought of using Radionek's money, which he had put away so carefully; but he could not make up his mind to resort to that means. He feared, moreover, and not without reason, lest he should be annoyed by disagreeable conjectures, and exposed perhaps to painful persecutions, if he chanced to allow even one ducat to be seen in his hands.

Fortunately, the widow, while she scratched her ear and shook her head, decided from time to time to open one of her sacks in order to help her old friend, for she was sincerely attached to him as well as to Radionek, the beautiful adopted child. Nevertheless, as the expenses increased, she grew more and more afraid that the whole pottery business would be a failure; and she frequently reproached herself for having encouraged the old man to choose that trade.

Procope, whom the old chief of squadron had ordered into his presence, telling him in plain terms that he expected Iermola's business to be successful, had set himself bravely to work, hoping, however, secretly to derive considerable profit for himself.

As for Mr. Steward Hudny, Iermola paid him twenty florins for permission to dig clay and build a kiln. Then he was obliged to hire two workmen to fit up and plaster another room. A fortnight from that time old Iermola hauled, mixed, and prepared the clay, turned and dried his pots, and was at last ready to fire the first pottery which had ever been manufactured in Popielnia. Procope undertook to watch the fire; and the first burning succeeded so well that on the whole there were very few pots injured.

Then when all the pots had been carried in and ranged round the room, the eyes of the two old men sparkled with delight, their handiwork looked so good and so pretty, was so resonant, so round, and so neat, and promised to be so good and solid. The pots stood the second firing splendidly, and as novelties are the rage even in a village, at the expiration of a few days they were all sold out,--not one jug or dish was left. The profits of the sales, it is true, were not sufficient to pay off all the debts; but the cossack's widow received a part of what was due her, the old man kept some for himself, Procope made a feast with the portion which came to him, the steward's wife pocketed her share, and Iermola, justly proud, entertained brilliant hopes for the future.

In the midst of all these worries Iermola never lost sight of little Radionek, and always kept him in his arms as much as possible. The child gave less trouble every day; one could almost see him grow. His intelligence developed; and it was evident already that he would one day be a charming frolicsome child. In his busiest moments Iermola intrusted him to Horpyna, who was always glad to have him; but he never allowed him to spend the night under a strange roof, for he was too lonely without him. When the baby was away, the poor goat did not know what to do with herself. If she stayed with the baby, she missed the old man; if she followed Iermola, she would bleat sadly as if calling for Radionek.

Fortunately, the first hours spent in the stupid lessons of his apprenticeship passed so rapidly that Iermola became convinced of the truth of the proverb, "It is not the saints who make the pots boil." Thanks to his quick mind, he learned rapidly the first principles of his art; but the turning and sizing of pots, the manipulation and preparation of the clay, were far more easy to comprehend than the manner of arranging the pottery in the kiln and managing the fire. The care necessary to keep the fire moderate, to prevent its going out, and to extinguish it at the proper time, so that the pots should not be burned too much, was the greatest difficulty of all for him,--a difficulty which could only be overcome by long habit and experience.

Procope, who was anxious to make himself very necessary to the old man, only half revealed to him the secrets of his art, which in great measure Iermola was therefore obliged to guess at, and only learned the truth after long groping in the dark. His strong and tenacious will enabled him to concentrate all the faculties of his mind on this one object; and this was a great help to him.

By the time the winter was over, and spring once more clothed in verdure and flooded with water the shores of the river Horyn, when the mariners again appeared on its banks with their rafts, Iermola had really, in every sense of the word, become a potter; his whole stock of pottery was sold at once to the carpenters and woodcutters in the forest. They literally grabbed for them; and the steward's wife was seriously angry because none were left for her, and the old man was obliged to give up even the small dishes he had kept for himself.

Meantime little Radionek grew and developed every day, and possessed every grace and beauty which were necessary to delight a father's heart.

He already began to call Iermola by that dear name, and this brought the tears to the old man's eyes; the child was learning to walk alone, and no longer needed the old goat, for he could now manage to eat a crust of bread, and the good Jewess was only needed to amuse him.

At the end of the year a little kid was added to the family; Iermola was not vexed at this, although he was sometimes much displeased to see that the Jewess bestowed her attention upon her young offspring to the neglect of his adopted son. Radionek played with his innocent, frolicsome little brother in such a pretty, sportive fashion that the old man, as he watched them, often held his sides for laughter, and this furnished him excellent reasons for going and embracing his child and being grateful to the kid.

Thus into this solitary ruin, which a year before had been dreary and almost deserted, hope, joy, and life had entered with the foundling child. One would scarcely have recognized Iermola, he seemed so much younger, and was so active, contented, and clever. The portion of the inn which he inhabited had been repaired and carefully covered, and another room furnished next his; the garden where the kiln stood was shut in by a small, very solid gate and by carefully trimmed hedges; it was evident that the good man was gradually acquiring comfort and competency. Iermola had employed a servant to help him and to take care of the goats; he was a little orphan about ten years old named Huluk. It was impossible for Iermola to do everything by himself; and now he had enough to pay for the child's services.

He really needed a woman in the cabin; but the widow came often and overlooked the household. Besides, his bread was baked, and his linen washed and mended at her house; and it was she also who prepared most of his dishes and undertook to make provision for the winter.

Every time that Iermola boasted to her of the results of his trade, she reminded him of her broken pot, which had first suggested the idea to him; and there is no telling how many times she told the story over, and commented on the accident. Providence had also granted her what she desired most; for her Horpyna had at last made a very brilliant marriage.

The young secretary who had for so long been attentive to Horpyna and made her frequent visits, after much hesitation, reflection, and a great struggle with his feelings, had concluded to listen only to the voice of his heart and asked her mother's consent to their marriage. This was not exactly the person the widow would have chosen, though her daughter was marrying an officer and making a brilliant match. She would have greatly preferred that she should have married a rich peasant, a farmer, who would probably have lived near her. But the young man would not hear of such a plan; he was preparing himself to be a surveyor, and was ambitious. The widow therefore was obliged to give up her daughter, and live alone at Popielnia on the small estate which the old lord had given her. The wedding was very elegant; and the next day after, when the young man, impatient to be settled in his own house, had carried off his bride, the widow, not being able to remain all alone in her deserted cottage, where everything reminded her of her daughter, went and spent the whole day with her friend Iermola. From that time she rarely passed a day without going to his house, for she could talk freely with him about her dear Horpyna, of her utter loneliness and her sad old age; and as Radionek at such times touched her heart and distracted her mind, she gradually became very fond of him.