He who rests and builds on the human heart should first look well into it and lay his foundations deep, lest the edifice of his hopes should tumble and fall for want of solid support. The human heart in its depths is only mire and mud; at moments this bottom thickens up and is condensed, but soon it becomes damp and dissolves under the flow of a thousand hidden brooks.

There are, however, some rare hearts formed of more lasting material, in which a furrow once ploughed is never effaced. Old Iermola, who had loved only once in his life, having found only one being upon whom he could lavish all the strength of his love, and to whom he had attached all the fibres of his soul, felt that nothing could replace to him this child whom he had loved, and whose loss he could not endure.

The grief he felt as he saw the carriage which contained Radionek drive away, it is impossible to describe. It was not a violent and passionate despair, nor a tempest of regrets, desires, and bitterness; but it was a feeling vast, deep, bitter, deadly as poison, slow and cold as the mountain ices. His weeping eyes dried suddenly, and became haggard, strange, constantly fixed in the same direction. He heard nothing, thought nothing. An indescribable confusion filled his brain, which seemed enveloped in the mazes of a black and tangled thread. He had lost all consciousness of self, all strength and will to act; he stood there petrified, half frozen, on the threshold, his hand extended, his lips parted, and remained there thus a long, very long time, without taking any account of the moments or the hours, letting the time go by without feeling it.

Huluk, who was a good boy, finding that he could not rouse Iermola from this stunned condition either by taking hold of his hand or calling him in a loud voice,--for the old man did not hear, and would not have understood him if he had heard,--ran to the widow's house for help.

The good woman came immediately, somewhat agitated, and severely blaming the old man for what she called his want of sense.

"You act like a child," she said. "How can you be so silly at your age? You ought to rejoice at Radionek's good fortune."

She began to lecture him in this way from a distance as soon as she could see him; but as she drew nearer, she perceived with fright that he could not hear her; he did not move his head, and gave no sign of life.

His eyes were turned toward the oak-trees, his mouth hanging open, his head bent down, his hands extended, stiff, and already almost benumbed.

The cossack's widow ran to him, began to rub him hard, and at the same time to talk to him, sparing him neither hard words nor reproaches, for she did not know what else to do.

"Have you really gone crazy, old idiot? Do you think they have taken him away to butcher him? For shame! for shame! Ask God's pardon; it is a real sin."

But she was obliged to scold and shake him a long time before she saw life or consciousness return. At last he burst into tears, began to sob, to murmur indistinct words, and finally his reason revived.

"It is all over," he said; "all my happiness is over. I no longer have my darling, my treasure, my Radionek. He is now a rich and powerful lord at Malyczki; but at my house there is no child, and there will never again be one there."

Then he began to break up his pitchers and porringers and his working implements, and threw them out of the door.

"What good will all this be to me? I want to return to my former life, to forget that the child was mine, that I had a son. I know what they will do with him; they will spoil him and turn his head. Radionek will be lost to me. The sweet child will never more speak to me and give me loving smiles as he used to do; he will always sigh for their handsome house, their plastered house. He will be cold in my hut; the fresh water and hard bread will not seem good to him; Iermola will be to him only a garrulous, insupportable old grumbler. Oh, I have been weak and mean-spirited! I have been crazy. I should have run away,--run far away with him to some place where they would not have been able to find us, and where they could not have taken him from me."

The cossack's widow listened and shrugged her shoulders; from time to time she tried to say a kind word to him, but she knew that it is necessary always to allow a great grief to vent and exhaust itself, so she let Iermola cry and groan. At every step the old man came upon something to remind him of the child, in the room which was still so full of mementos of him. Here was his drugget cloak; there a little painted pitcher which he had made himself, the first vase, glazed and ornamented with flowers, which he had so lovingly made, his square cap with a red border, of the Polesian fashion, and in a corner, the little bench upon which he loved to sit, the porringer from which he ate his meals, the goat he played with, and which was bleating because it did not see him.

"Oh, I must end it all by bursting my head against the wall!" cried Iermola. "How can I live without him? I feel as if my child were dead."

The widow, who now began to be frightened because she thought that Iermola's grief was not of the kind which would soon subside, sent Huluk to beg Chwedko to come immediately to the old inn. Chwedko, being warned of what was going on, and considering brandy as the greatest possible comforter, took care to take with him a bottle full of it. He began by talking pleasantly and even congratulating his old friend, then he compared in a melancholy way the old man's attachment for Radionek to that he bore his gray mare; then having exhausted all his eloquence, and not knowing what else to do, he drew the bottle from his pouch and set it on the table.

At the sight of it Iermola's eyes sparkled; he seized the bottle and emptied it at one draught. But man has moments of internal upheaval, so deep and so intense that the effect of things with which he comes in contact is no longer manifested according to the general laws of nature. The human being who has reached such a state of excessive excitement and agony no longer feels either hunger or cold, and will even be proof against poison; as, for instance, in the heat of battle, a soldier will take, without becoming intoxicated, an enormous quantity of liquor, which ordinarily would certainly have laid him on the ground. Just so it was with Iermola, who wished to get drunk and could not succeed, for he felt no inconvenience or stupefaction, in spite of the large quantity of brandy he had swallowed.

"What a head he must have to stand a pint of strong gin!" murmured Chwedko, with a sort of respect.

"It is not his head which is strong; it is his grief," said the widow, in a low voice. "Give him a bucketful of it now, and you would not make him tipsy; grief keeps him awake."

As the evening came on, they made every effort to induce him to spend the night at the widow's cottage, but they could not persuade him to do so. The old man seated himself again on the door-sill, and began to muse and sigh with his eyes fixed on the oaks. The two neighbours were compelled by urgent business to return home, Chwedko remembering that it was time to water his mare, and the widow having to prepare her supper and milk her cow. They were both obliged to leave him; and Huluk, the poor orphan, was left alone with him, weeping.

The evening advanced; night came on, and still Iermola did not move from the spot. He slept there a few moments, for sorrow had overcome him. Then he wakened suddenly and remained so, still motionless. Huluk, suffering for the want of sleep, watched over him and kept up a low wailing.

It was about the first cock-crowing when a shadow of some one moving fell suddenly upon the threshold of the cabin. Huluk, who had the eyes of a lynx, immediately recognized Radionek, who was running along the road leading from Malyczki. The old man had not seen him, but he had felt his coming; he trembled, looked around, and cried, "Radionek!"

"Yes, it is I, my father."

"It is you, my good child; ah, the Lord be praised! I was dying without you, do you see, and you have come to bring me back to life. But how did you come? On foot?"

"On foot, father. Did I not know the road? And why should I be afraid to walk at night?"

"Did you come alone?"

"With my stick."

"And did they give you permission to come?"

"Bah! I did not ask it. They put me to bed, but I was so troubled I could not close my eyes. I cannot tell you how anxious I was; I felt obliged to come back to you. And when the morning comes and they do not find me, they will know well enough where to look for me."

Iermola, as he embraced him, felt his strength and presence of mind return, and he quickly revived.

"Huluk," he cried in a glad, strong voice, "the poor child is doubtless cold; he is hungry too. Surely they could not have given him anything to eat. Light the fire. Is there anything to eat? I also feel as if my stomach was empty."

"How astonishing!" murmured the boy; "yesterday neither of them ate one mouthful."

"Ah, that is true, upon my word."

"I will light the fire myself, father, and get your breakfast ready," said Radionek. "Let me wait upon you as I used to do."

"Ah, no, no, my child! sit down beside me; tomorrow they will take you away again. Do not leave me, I beg you. But you are cold out here; the dew is falling. Come inside, my child."

When the fire kindled by Huluk began to light up the room with its bright red flames, the old man, as he looked at Radionek, perceived that his parents, although they had not had time to change his dress entirely, had nevertheless considerably altered his costume. His mother had found for him in her closet a fine white shirt, had tied a pretty cravat around his neck, had washed, combed, and curled his beautiful golden hair, had fastened a girdle round his waist, put one of his father's caps on his head, and poured over his clothing a perfumed essence. These changes in the child's dress seemed to Iermola so many signs of abjuration, of bondage, so many new fetters belonging to his new position; he sighed as he examined them, though the child was charming to look at in this half-altered costume. They were silent for a moment, for the old man had grown sad again; he gazed at the child, and was troubled as he thought of the future.

"To-morrow," said he to himself, "they will come for him, and take him away again; the poor child will not be able to come back to me any more,--they will keep a strict watch over him. Who knows, perhaps they may punish him for having returned to comfort his old father.--Are you happier with them?" he asked after a moment. "Give me at least the comfort of knowing that you are happy."

"I was comfortable; but I was sad," answered the boy. "My grandfather's body is laid out on a bed; the priests are chanting in the great hall. My mother kept me by her side all day and asked me all about what I did here. She made me tell her all about our life; she clasped her hands and cried, and every moment she thanked you and thanked God. They gave me something to eat, petted me, and kissed me. They wanted to change my clothes entirely, but I begged them so hard not to do it that at last they let me alone; but they have sent for a tailor to make me some new clothes. My father said"--that name, given by Radionek to the lord Jan Druzyna, struck sadly on the poor man's ears--"my father said that he should get a tutor to instruct me; and he has given me a pretty horse."

"God grant that you may always be happy there!" sighed the old man. "I am sure they will love you; but I am also sure that you will more than once long for our cabin and the peaceful days you spent in it."

They would thus have passed the rest of the night, talking and without sleeping, if Iermola, fearing Radionek might be sick, had not made him go to bed; he then sat down beside him to watch over him and see him sleep. In the morning the anxious father came; and though he did not scold the child, he told him in a gentle voice of the dreadful fright his imprudence had caused his mother. This made Radionek sad; he looked down and made no reply.

"To prevent the recurrence of such an adventure," said Druzyna, "we will take Iermola to Malyczki; there is a vacant room in the house, and we will care for him as he has cared for you."

"No, no!" answered the old man, shaking his head, "I will not go to live with you; I love my child dearly, but I will not go. I am now accustomed to being my own master; it would be hard for me to eat the bread of dependence in my old age. I should soon repent of the change and get tired of it. Some one or other would laugh at me, would say something to wound me; that would cause me suffering, and trouble the child too. Your servants have no respect for strangers; they would think they were doing me a favour. No, a thousand times no! I will stay here."

It was in vain that Radionek's father begged, supplicated, and endeavoured to persuade the old man. Iermola kissed his child and pressed him in his arms, kept him by his side, wept over him, blessed him, and at last sat down on the door-sill as though awaiting death.

Very strange indeed are often the destinies of men and the decrees of God. In some cases the thread of life breaks, though spun of pure gold and shining silk; in others, neither pain nor sorrow can succeed in breaking the black, shadowy thread which they shake with their cruel hands. Iermola survived the separation, and could not die. He was sick; he grew old again; he stooped, and became gloomy and taciturn; he entered upon another phase of life; but his vital forces, which he had not squandered, still sustained him. Fate had deprived him of everything but seeing the child at a distance, the power of tormenting himself, of longing, and of comforting himself with memories.

After Radionek was gone, he gave up his trade of potter, giving up all his implements and materials to Huluk, who had learned something from watching him work. For his part, he contented himself henceforth in his garden and in the little home he had made for himself, spending his days sometimes dreaming and musing in the room where he had reared his child, sometimes in making long visits and holding long talks with his friend, the widow.

She was the only person, in fact, who really understood him and would listen to him patiently. The similarity of their positions had established a real sympathy between them. He was filled with compassion for her, because she was deprived of the presence of Horpyna, who since she had become a great lady no longer came to see her mother; and she mourned and longed for Radionek almost as much as he did himself.

They spent long hours talking together before the fire, recalling happy times, and though they had a hundred times repeated the same story, each of them knew how to listen patiently when the same chain of remembrances fell again from their lips.

"Do you remember how pretty my Horpyna was when she dressed herself on Sunday to go to the cerkiew? You would not recognize her now, since she has nursed her five children, she is so thin and changed, though she eats fine white bread and leads the life of a great lady. Oh, it is not a healthy life; the body and the soul perish together."

"And my Radionek," answered the old man, "wasn't he much prettier with his little sukmane and his shaved head, than in the fine clothes they make him wear now?"

At first Radionek came every day to see his foster-father, sometimes alone, sometimes with a servant, or with either his father or mother; after a while he only came to Popielnia in a carriage on Sunday. At last he came no longer; and the old man about once a month, when his desire to see his child became insupportable, would drag himself along with the aid of his stick to the places frequented by his beloved charge, hoping to see him, if only for a moment at a distance.

At first also, Radionek would rush to the old man as soon as he saw him; no one could stop him, so intense was his feeling and so swift his motion.

Then when Iermola would send in his name, he would be obliged to wait a moment; gradually he would have to wait sometimes an hour; and it happened once that after having waited all day long at the door, he did not see his child, and went away in tears.

They took him to the farm and gave him something to eat; but it was not bodily nourishment which the old man needed, it was the pleasure of seeing and having his child once more, of feasting and living in his presence, which alone could satisfy him and restore peace and comfort to his home.

Iermola did not complain; he knew very well that his child, his dear child, was not to blame for this neglect and desertion; that Radionek's parents and tutors endeavoured by every means in their power to make him forget the existence of his adoptive father; and that the child, whenever he could see him, would whisper to him with tears that he would like to run away and go back to Popielnia.