What had happened at StarydwÓr soon became known in Starawies. How could Marianna have kept silent about it?

She had told Jendrek with many sighs the very next evening behind the stable door, when he had rushed over for a quarter of an hour from the settlement, and her apron had been quite wet with tears. The dear, good master! Jendrek really ought to have seen how the poor man hung. Like that. And she turned up the whites of her eyes and let her red tongue hang loosely out of her mouth, so that the inquisitive man still shuddered when he thought of it.

Ugh! But how did Mr. Tiralla look now?

Oh, just as usual, you could not see that anything had been the matter with him. He crept about again as he had always done, yellow and thin. But the strangest thing of all was that he did not know anything about it.

Did not know anything about it? Jendrek would not believe that. How can a man hang himself and afterwards know nothing about it?

That astounded everybody. People came running to see Mr. Tiralla and press his hand in mute condolence whilst they gazed at him with curious, disappointed eyes. There were so many visitors the next and following Sunday as StarydwÓr had not seen within its walls for many a day.

Mr. Jokisch and Mr. Schmielke came, as well as the forester and the gendarme and all their friends from Starawies and Gradewitz. Even the priest was there. The big room was quite full of visitors. Refreshments were brought in, Tokay and beer, and Mrs. Tiralla herself smilingly handed everybody a glass of gin, which was very welcome in that cold, unhealthy weather. Mikolai offered cigars, and soon the room was dark with thick, blue clouds of smoke, through which every now and then a quick glance was cast at Mr. Tiralla, as though the men suddenly recollected why they had come to StarydwÓr. There was much laughing and talking.

Mr. Tiralla sat staring in front of him without saying a word, or taking any interest in what was going on. It was as though he were no longer one of them.

Yes, the man was in a bad state of health, they all saw that. What had the doctor said?

They had not had one so far, said Mrs. Tiralla, casting down her eyes. Then she added softly, with trembling lips, that up to now she had only prayed and prayed.

The priest nodded. But when he soon afterwards left and she accompanied him to the front door, he took hold of her hand in the passage and pointed out to her that it was her duty to send for a doctor. "My dear Mrs. Tiralla," he said, "invoking divine help is certainly--h'm"--he cleared his throat, those wide-open, staring eyes made him quite confused--"divine help is certainly the chief thing, but human help is not to be dispensed with. Your husband seems very ill, really dangerously ill, why won't you have a doctor? You must absolutely send for one."

She followed him with her eyes as he walked away and there was a peculiar smile on her face. So--so he said that? Surely he did not believe that a doctor could change what had been decided upon in heaven? Very well, she could, of course, send for a doctor. But the man might prescribe whatever he liked, Mr. Tiralla would still be tottering to his grave with every step he took.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

"A strong-minded woman," remarked the visitors, as they walked home across the fields. "Terrible," they said then, and shivered as though they felt cold.

The wind whirled round them, and a flock of ravens, startled at their approach, flew out of the furrows screeching and cawing just over their heads. What a horrible noise! The men stood still involuntarily. Look, look! they all flew back to StarydwÓr and settled on the roofs. Those birds of ill omen!

Psia brew, how awful it must be there at present, to be every day with that man. Why, he was quite idiotic. Mr. Tiralla had never been very bright, and he had always had a hankering after drink. Well, well, your sin is sure to find you out. Poor woman! She was the only one who deserved to be pitied. It was really admirable how she kept up her courage.

"H'm, it's taken a great deal out of her, nevertheless," remarked Mr. Schmielke with a long--drawn whistle. He had suddenly grown very cool in his feelings towards her. "Sophia Tiralla's reign is over and done with. Did you notice the hollows in her cheeks? And then her eyes, how sunk they were. H'm, that lanky, red-haired girl, who dared not show herself at her mother's side a short time ago, is almost nicer-looking now. She's really not at all bad."

"You had better keep your fingers off her," said some one. "She's going into a convent."

"Tut, tut, don't talk nonsense. She--with those eyes?"

But the gendarme knew it for a fact, for the priest had mentioned quite a short time ago that the Ladies of the Sacred Heart at the Wallischei had been told of Rosa Tiralla's coming.

"Very well then, I shan't," said Schmielke. He made no more of his frivolous remarks, but grew silent as the others had gradually done. They all felt out of tune, thoroughly depressed. StarydwÓr seemed to be running behind them, now that they had left the place. In their mind's eye they continued to see the black birds on the gloomy-looking roofs, and the man who had hanged himself and was still alive, and the woman who had cut him down and who still smiled.

All at once they hastened their steps, and not another word was spoken until they reached the first house in Starawies.

Then they began to speak of the schoolmaster. That was another of them, he and Tiralla were a couple. Both of them were being ruined by drink. But it was a great shame of BÖhnke, for he ought to be a pattern to the children, as the priest very rightly had said. How could such a fellow teach children, a man who drank so much that he had been found in the ditch like a tramp, his clothes torn, and bleeding and dirty? It was a great disgrace.

The gendarme could tell a tale about that. He had many a time seen the schoolmaster coming home at dawn, and had watched him trying to poke his key into the lock; he had many a time had to help him to open the door. But when he had picked him out of the ditch on his way home from a round in the Przykop, looking no better than a drunken vagabond whom you look up, he had felt obliged to speak about it. Father Szypulski would perhaps have preferred him to have hushed it up, but it surely would not do for the village schoolmaster to be found lying drunk and bruised in a ditch. It would have been found out sooner or later, and then nobody would have any respect for him. Of course, the man could not stop at Starawies, and who knows, perhaps he would have to give up being a schoolmaster altogether. The priest, who as a rule was so loquacious, had never said a word about it.

As they came past the house where BÖhnke lived, they looked at it askance. What did the man feel like? He had not shown himself for days--had he already left? The priest had said "as soon as possible."

They all felt they had never liked the schoolmaster; he had always been so conceited, so proud of his learning. Here you could plainly see it, "Pride goeth before a fall."

They knocked at the door. The shutters in front of the schoolmaster's window were closed. Had he really left, or was it because he felt so ashamed of himself?

The schoolmaster had indeed left, so the old woman, his landlady, who lived on the other side of the house, told them. Oh, dear, she complained, now her lodger had gone, and she had not got another one. "And what had he done?" she cried, clenching her fists in her fury. "Let those be struck by lightning who have slandered him. Dear, dear, how he wept. When I said to him, 'Don't weep, Panje BÖhnke, my husband, the stas, also drank himself to death,' he did nothing but repeat, 'Oh my mother, my mother!' and groaned so that he made my heart come into my mouth. His mother is said to be a schoolmaster's widow and very poor. She won't be pleased when her son comes home like that. God have mercy on us all. Oh, Mr. BÖhnke, Mr. BÖhnke, what a good lodger he was." And the old woman began to sigh and weep so for her former lodger that the men got away as speedily as possible.

How disagreeable everything was, and then the weather was so raw. The only thing for them to do would be to make themselves comfortable at the inn. And they did so.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Marianna carried the news to her mistress that the schoolmaster had been turned out of Starawies in disgrace, in a voice full of malice and scorn. Pan BÖhnke had gone to the devil, what did the Pani say now, eh? She cast a covert glance at her--what would she look like, pale or red, happy or sorry?

But Mrs. Tiralla looked quite unconcerned. At any other time she might perhaps have rejoiced, but now it did not even surprise her. So the schoolmaster was no longer in her way? Good. She knew that her guardian angel was keeping his wings spread over her.

She felt so calm at present that she was often surprised at it herself. Her heart no longer throbbed and ran riot as it had formerly done. She had been a fool and even a sinner, when she had caught hold of her guardian angel's arm, and had cut her husband down when he was dangling; but she felt that the saints had already forgiven her. She saw more plainly day by day--almost hour by hour--that Mr. Tiralla was drifting quickly, uninterruptedly to his end. She often longed to fold her hands in her exceeding gratitude; she went about the whole day with prayers of thankfulness on her lips.

Marianna was rather astonished to find that her mistress took the schoolmaster's departure so coolly. Had there never been anything between them? Neither formerly nor lately? Anyhow, she seemed very indifferent about it. Now Mr. Mikolai had a much softer heart, for he was very much cut up when he heard that the man had left. At first he had opened his eyes in surprise, but then he had pressed his hands to his head and groaned, "I would never have thought it; oh, dear, if I had only known it!" What a good fellow Mikolai was. He would in time be just what his father used to be. And Marianna was more attentive than ever to him.

Meanwhile Mikolai went about looking very troubled. He had certainly not wanted to do that, he had only wanted to give BÖhnke a reminder when he thrashed him and threw him into the ditch. It also grieved him bitterly for his father's sake; the old man had been so fond of the schoolmaster, who used to spend hours with him like a friend. And now his little BÖhnke would never come again. He felt so sorry for his father that he thought he must speak to him about it.

But Mr. Tiralla listened to his son's stammering excuses without understanding them. "Schoolmaster--schoolmaster?" He shook his head. "I don't know any schoolmaster. Friend--friend? Have--no--friend."

Mikolai shuddered when he looked at his father. There he sat with loose, hanging lip, and eyes the eyeballs of which looked as rigid as though he could not move them any more. He was not like a human being any longer. Did he not remember anything? He seized the old man by the shoulder and shook him, "Father!" Then Mr. Tiralla shrunk together in his corner like a hedgehog when you put the tip of your finger near it, and shot nervous glances at his son, glances in which there was malevolence as well as fear.

Mikolai felt desperate; the man only answered with a grunt now, it was impossible to explain anything to him. He felt as though something were choking him, he was obliged to run out of the stuffy room into the biting north-east wind that swept across the yard from the open fields and whirled the straw and chaff and feathers about that were lying around.

How terrible it was! The old man was spoiling both house and farm for him. He clenched his fists and a sigh of indignation was wrung from him; why, it would have been better if his stepmother had not cut him down!

He made the sign of the cross as though to confirm the thought. Then he turned to go indoors again. What could he do out there? There was no work to be done, a grey, heavy November mist hung over everything. What had become of Martin? He could no longer understand his friend. How well they had formerly assisted each other to kill time during these dark days. But now Martin could find no rest at StarydwÓr, he took no pleasure in anything, all he thought of was the first of December, when he was to leave them.

The lonely man shivered. Rosa would also be leaving after Christmas; even now she sat in her room upstairs as if it were a cell, and she was happy only when praying alone. She hardly ever appeared downstairs, she seemed to shun everybody. How different it all might have been, how splendid! But his father had ruined everything, everything.

The man uttered a curse as he entered the house. He went in search of his friend. Martin, however, was not pleased to see him; he had begun to turn his drawers and looked up disagreeably surprised when Mikolai came so unexpectedly into the room.

"What do you want?" he asked in an angry voice, hastily throwing a bundle of clothes into his box which he locked.

"Are you already packing?" inquired Mikolai. Then he added, "I suppose you can't await the day of your departure? But it hasn't come yet."

Martin cast an uncertain glance at his friend. "I know that," he said softly, and then added hastily and in a louder voice, as though he wanted to convince himself and friend of the truth of what he was saying, "I'm not thinking of it either. There's plenty of time; I'm not in any hurry."

Who believed that? Mikolai no longer believed his friend; why did he not look him in the face? Psia krew, something had come between Martin and him which he could not fathom, but it was there, nevertheless.

He felt very dejected as he left the room, the walls of which had so often echoed with their laughter. Now no laughter resounded within the thick walls of the old house. He stumbled up the dark stairs to Rosa's room; he would go to her and say, "Come, laugh with me, RÖschen, or at least talk to me. I can't bear it any longer."

But when he suddenly burst into the room his sister jumped up with a terrified, eager look. She had been sitting near the low window, through whose curtained panes there hardly came a gleam of light. Some needlework had been lying on her lap, but it had slipped down and lay on the floor, and there was a flushed, expectant look on her face. Who was that?

"Oh, it's you." It sounded as if she were disappointed. She grew pale, and her lids drooped wearily, but she forced herself to smile. "Good morning, Mikolai."

"Good morning, sister mine." He took hold of her hands and gazed at her. She seemed so tall--or had she looked like that for some time? "Pretty girl," he said playfully, and pinched her cheek that felt like velvet.

"Don't talk nonsense." She freed herself indignantly and her face darkened. But when she noticed that he looked put out, she smiled a wan smile, and whispered as she clung to him, "Don't be cross. I must be preparing myself, you know, and such things are no longer for me."

"What rubbish, what nonsense." He grew seriously angry. "I've had enough of these goings-on here. The old man drinks the whole day, you pray the whole day, and there's not a bit of happiness in the house. Psia krew, let the lightning----"

"Sh!" She laid her hand on his mouth soothingly. "You mustn't swear, Mikolai," she begged softly, "it's sinful. Come, sit down."

She drew him with her to her chair near the window, the only seat in the narrow room except the stool beside Marianna's bed. Her delicate fingers forced him down and he squatted in front of her, whilst she put her arms round his neck.

"When I shall no longer be with you--it won't be long now, only three, four, five weeks more." She counted and then sighed, "No, still six."

"So you count like Becker," he interrupted her angrily. "You're longing to get away like he is. Nice love and friendship that, I must say."

She had flushed when he mentioned his friend's name, and a restless look had come into her eyes, but she soon grew calm again. She gazed at her brother with eyes full of love as she said, "You'll miss me, Mikolai, I know that very well. And I shall miss you too. But I'll pray for you. Oh, dear"--her voice was very sad, and big tears began to trickle down her cheeks--"I have to pray for so much, for so many." She wrung her hands. "My life will not be long enough for it all."

"Oh, yes, for father," he said in a low voice, and his head drooped.

She nodded: "And for mother too."

"What do you mean?" He looked at her in surprise. "She'll earn her seat in heaven by her own merits, she won't require your prayers."

"Who knows!" There was an expression of doubt in the girl's pure face, and she stared straight in front of her as though she saw something that others could not see. She trembled, and her voice was full of agony as she continued, "Who can know for certain that she does not require anybody to pray for her? Look, look!" She seized her brother's hand, and he shuddered at the peculiar expression in her eyes, that had become even more fixed than before. "I see mother in a white dress--oh, how beautiful she looks--I see her flying up to heaven--but look, look! There are spots on the hem of her dress. All those dark spots--do you see them, Mikolai?--are dragging her down. I'm not sure of it, not sure of it"--she shook her head, and there was a troubled gleam in her eyes and a terrified look on her face--"I love her so, I love her so, but there's something." She passed her hand over her eyes. "I can't wipe it away, it's there and it tortures me. Mikolai, brother!" She threw her arms round his neck, sobbing bitterly, and her tears wetted his cheek. "You must love me, love me dearly."

Her trembling lips sought his and imprinted a long kiss on them. He kissed her tenderly in return; his dear little sister, and she wanted to leave him?

"Speak to the old man," he begged. All at once he felt convinced that his sister would be able to alter everything. "Talk to him," he said ingenuously, "remonstrate with him, point out to him how wrong it is to drink, and he won't do it any more. Then all will be right. And you needn't go into a convent."

"I'll speak to him. I'll remonstrate with him. But I shall go into a convent all the same," she added in a low voice.

He did not hear her last words, he was too happy at the thought of her speaking to their father. Yes, there was some truth in it, there was something holy about Rosa, she could convert heathens, he felt sure.

He whistled as he went downstairs.

Martin Becker gave a start when he heard his friend's clear tones. How happy he seemed to be. An embarrassed smile crossed his face; to-morrow by this time Mikolai would not be whistling so contentedly, for he, Martin, if God were merciful to him, would be away over the fields, far away, almost there where the setting sun had left a yellow streak in the sky. "Mikolai will have to forgive me," he murmured, and went on with the occupation in which he had been disturbed before.

He had secured himself against interruption now, for he had bolted the door. He was packing his belongings. He had arranged and hung up his things in the room as though he had intended remaining at StarydwÓr for ever. But now he tore down his parents' photographs and those of his sisters and brothers, which he had hung up over his bed, and the picture of Mikolai and himself as soldiers, and the gay-coloured calendar which had looked so nice on the wall--no, he would have to leave the calendar, Mikolai would miss it too much.

He squeezed everything into his wooden box, and, as it would not close at once, sat down on it impatiently. How fortunate it was that it was no bigger, and that he could carry it comfortably on his shoulder!

He used to awake every night when the old clock in the passage struck the hour of midnight. What had become of his blessed sleep? To-night he would wake as usual, and then he would lie with open eyes and listen--one o'clock, two o'clock--and when everybody was lying in that deep, sound sleep which comes in the early hours of the morning, he would quietly put on the rest of his clothes--he would not undress himself entirely--and steal out of the room in his socks with his boots in his hand and his box on his shoulder. Softly, very softly. But that would hardly be necessary, for Mikolai always slept soundly, and there was nobody else downstairs except Mr. Tiralla, and he no longer counted, of course. So he could easily get away, for the key was in the front door and the farm gate was quickly opened. Then he would run across the fields--it would be dawn by that time and he would be able to see the path--away, away to Starawies. And then through Starawies, where everybody would still be asleep, away, away to the station in Gradewitz. The first train left at eight o'clock, he could easily catch it. And when he was in the train, then--the man drew a deep sigh of relief--then God had been merciful to him, then he was saved.

Martin did not take into consideration that he was treating his friend badly. True, the thought had occurred to him for a moment that he had given Mikolai his word and hand, but his duty to himself seemed of more importance to him. His everlasting salvation was at stake. He had felt that since the last time he had gone to confession, and he felt it daily with renewed pangs of conscience. But he also felt that he was paying a high price for his salvation. How she crept round him with her soft footsteps, making the circles smaller and smaller. Had she not brushed past him in the passage the day before, and whispered so close to his ear that her breath had tickled him, "Are you coming?" If she were to repeat that again and again, would he continue to have sufficient strength of will not to follow her? She knew how to talk and make excuses. How sweetly she could talk. Had she no anxiety about her own salvation? On thinking it over, he could not remember ever having heard her say anything irreverent or impure. When she sat opposite him at table, quieter now than she had ever been before, and mutely raised her big eyes to the ceiling, she looked exactly like the pictures of the Virgin Mary whose heart is pierced with seven swords owing to her grief for her Son. Oh, no, she was no bad woman, she was a good woman--and still, it was a sin to remain near her any longer.

Martin had lain awake a long time the night before, for the words, "Are you coming?" still rung in his ears and made his blood course through his veins like fire. There was such a pricking restlessness about him, that he felt as if he could not remain in bed any longer. But when he had at last fallen asleep after tossing about for a long time, he had dreamt of his dead mother. She had appeared to him, and that portended something. And she had held up her finger as if in warning--or had he only thought of that later on? He could not be sure, but next morning, when he felt as tired, as heavy, and as worn-out as though he had been dragging something that had been too heavy for him, it came over him like a divine inspiration; this could go on no longer, he would have to leave at once and not wait for the time that had been fixed. His mother had come to fetch him, her anxiety for her child left her no peace at the throne of God.

And Martin felt that he would have to go away secretly, without any leave-taking. If she were press her lips to his, if her tearful eyes were to implore him with a look like that of a wounded hind, if she were to say, "My sun, my love, remain in my sky. It is God's will that the sun shall remain in the sky, for otherwise it would be dark night, and then I should die"--then he would not go. He would remain, and then--well, then? He uttered an incoherent prayer. He was sorry for Mikolai; he felt a stab in his heart when he heard him whistling. But he was glad he had not seen Rosa that day. If only he did not see her again.

Martin shunned Rosa. He did not know himself whether the feeling he had for the girl was a pious awe, because she was destined for the convent, or an awe in which there was something like shame, shame because he had listened to her when she lay on her bed and whispered her innermost thoughts aloud.

The man sighed as he passed his hand over his brow on which the sweat was standing. How deeply he had sunk, more deeply than in the deepest pond in the Przykop. The only thing that could help him now would be to tear himself away from StarydwÓr by force, without any consideration for anybody.

He remained in his room the whole morning, but when he heard the rattling of plates and Marianna's call to dinner he stole past the sitting-room door and out into the yard. He did not care to eat. He stumbled about among the trees in the Przykop where nobody could see him, and gave a start every time an animal stirred, or a dry leaf fell to the ground. His heart felt broken, but the hope of salvation shone feebly before his eyes. He would soon be away. If only this day were over!

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was a short day in November, but still it seemed endless at StarydwÓr. Mrs. Tiralla was full of anxiety and impatience. Martin had spent the morning in his room, and he had not come to the midday meal. Where was he? She had sought him everywhere and had not found him. She was trembling--where could he be? The calm which she had lately acquired had all at once disappeared; she forgot that the saints held her fate in their hands; all she could think of was that Martin had gone away without a word. Was he coming back?

She wandered about in an agony of fear, she could not remain a quarter of an hour in one place. She ran up and down stairs, from her room down into the passage and then up again, then out into the yard, where she stood at the gate without cloak or shawl, and where the cutting wind caught hold of her apron and spread it out like a sail, whilst she looked about for Martin. But she could not find the one her heart was longing for.

The fields lay desolate, the Przykop yawned like a grave in which there is no living thing to be found Where had he gone? She sought his footprints, as a dog seeks those of his master, but the rain and snow had obliterated them, and her eyes, full of tears, soon saw nothing but a grey, impenetrable mist.

She ran back into the house and began to question Mikolai. Where had Martin gone? He must know, for between him and his friend there was always a perfect understanding.

Her stepson stared at her in amazement. Why was she so angry? Becker would be sure to come back when it grew dark. Maybe he had gone to the village; it was long since he, Mikolai, knew anything about his whereabouts.

That did not add to the woman's peace of mind. So Martin kept away from Mikolai too. He was separating himself more and more from them all. "O God, have mercy! let him come back, let him come back!" She was like a hunted hind that is seeking a place of shelter.

So she ran to Rosa. It was long since she had been to her room; she had not found time to go. But why had Rosa kept away from her? Surely it was more fitting for the child to come to her mother than the mother to her child? Now, however, in her great anxiety she fled to her tender-hearted daughter.

At first Rosa was somewhat reserved. There was something shy and strange in her behaviour towards her mother, but the latter did not notice anything; all she wanted was a soul, a friend to share her anxiety.

"I don't know where Becker is," she began. "It's already dark and he hasn't returned yet. He has never gone away like this before, never stopped away so long without saying a word. O God, surely nothing can have happened to him?" she cried, pressing her hands to her temples with an expression of dread. "Oh, this fear, this fear!"

The woman no longer thought of hiding her feelings; there was a look of wild terror in her eyes, and her agitated voice was full of despair.

Rosa's face had flamed when her mother came into the room, but she turned deadly pale now. She did not answer, but she gazed at her mother as though she were trying to read her soul.

A shot was heard in the Przykop. Mrs. Tiralla gave a shrill scream.

"A gamekeeper is shooting," said Rosa.

"They surely can't have hit him? Oh, if he were in the Przykop and they had wounded him? But that"--Mrs. Tiralla gave an excited laugh--"would not be the worst. If only he comes back, if only he comes back! Do you think he could go away without saying good-bye?" she asked her daughter eagerly, casting an imploring glance at her. If only the girl would say, "He'll come back, mother, don't grieve, he'll come back to you." If only Rosa with her innocent lips would beseech the Almighty to give him back to her.

"Pray, my child," stammered Mrs. Tiralla, as she pressed her daughter's folded hands between her own. "Pray. Let us pray together."

A convulsive movement passed over Rosa's pure face. It looked as though she were going to thrust her mother away. But the struggle only lasted a moment. Fixing her eyes on a crucifix that she had hung over her bed, she said with shining eyes, "What shall I say?" just as she had spoken as a child, when her mother, tortured and full of hate, had knelt in the evenings at her bedside and wakened her with her tears and sighs.

"Pray, pray."

But Rosa's voice had lost its childish cadence; the clear, silvery ring had gone, and there was something austere and coolly calm in it now. "What do you wish me to say?"

"Oh, you know," groaned her mother. "Pray for him--oh, my fear, my fear. Pray that he may return to me. Child, my child, pray for me."

Freeing herself from her mother's clinging hands Rosa began to repeat the Salve Regina. "Hail, Queen, Mother of mercy. Thou our life, our sweetness, our hope, hail!" Her voice gradually rose and lost more and more of its cool austerity, as though she were intoxicating herself with the sweet beauty of the words, until it became warm and soft and melting as she said, "To Thee we call, to Thee we sigh, as we grieve and weep in this vale of tears." And then passing from the Salve to another prayer, she raised her voice in fervent supplication until it almost became a cry, "Be gracious to him! Spare him! Deliver him from all evil, from all sin!"

"Be gracious to him--spare him--deliver him!" repeated her mother mechanically. She did not know what she was praying, she did not understand that the words her daughter had been repeating were from the litany for a departing soul.

"We, poor sinners, pray Thee to hear us." The mother and daughter mingled their voices in fervent prayer, whilst the words, "Martin, Martin, what has become of you?" echoed in their hearts and rose like a twofold cry from the narrow little room that was gradually growing darker and darker.

"Stop, stop!" The woman sobbed aloud, she could not pray any longer. She threw her arms round her daughter's neck and wept. "Rosa, Rosa, he's not coming back. Rosa, darling,"--she pressed wild kisses on her daughter's face that was uplifted so piously--"pray, pray--how am I to thank you? No, don't pray any more, rather tell me--hark, there he is!"

In a second she was on her feet, and had rushed to the door, which closed with a bang behind her.

Rosa remained alone in the darkness.

She heard Martin's voice downstairs, and then Mikolai--and then her mother's happy laugh.

But Rosa continued to pray fervently; it was as though she were holding fast to the words of her prayer. The stars had long ago come out above the farm, the new moon was just over the gable, but she still lay on her knees praying. But now it was a soft whisper to the Lord, a blissful communing with the Bridegroom of her soul.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

It was night at StarydwÓr. The moon had disappeared, and black clouds, driven along by the boisterous wind, were chasing each other over the house-top and hiding the stars.

Mr. Tiralla was sitting alone in his room. It was really time for him to go to bed, but there was nobody to assist him; Marianna had not come, and he was unable to go to bed alone. At first he had moaned and growled, but now he was calm. The few thoughts he had left were creeping after the servant. Ha, ha! how she was racing; she was running to meet a sweetheart. It amused him to picture her to himself.

What a good thing it was that his thoughts were his own, that they had not taken them from him as well as everything, everything else. He made a grimace as he clenched his fists. "That woman!" There she had stood--there at the writing-desk, and had wanted to steal his money--no, not his money, the powders, his powders. They were worth more than money. She had wanted to get him out of the way by the help of them. Ha, ha!--he chuckled to himself--but he had hidden them well, she would not be able to find them now.

Next time little BÖhnke came he would show him where he had hidden those dear, precious things--no, he would not even show little BÖhnke, for who knows, perhaps they would make his mouth water, and he would kill him so as to get them, and then eat them all up himself.

"Now, now, little BÖhnke," said the man, shaking his finger at an imaginary person in the corner of the room. Then he added, "No, I'm not angry with you, in spite of your not having been to see me for so long. Take a seat, brother, there, sit down." He dragged a chair nearer with his heavy foot, and smiled at the schoolmaster, who was sitting near him with such a pale face and such hollow eyes.

"Drink, friend, drink," said Mr. Tiralla, as he seized his glass and finished it in one gulp. "Pooh!" He made a gesture of distaste. It did not taste at all nice--or did it taste nice? "No, no!" He raised his fist and struck the glass so hard that it broke into pieces. There, that did him good. Now that enemy could not harm him again.

"Ha, ha!" He chuckled to himself again, and did not notice that the blood was trickling down his finger. "Why are you so quiet, little BÖhnke?"

No answer. But the wind moaned round the house and rushed down the chimney screeching, "Oo-hoo, oo-hoo," like an owl.

The man had been accustomed all his life to this wintry music round StarydwÓr, but now it terrified him. He attempted to make the sign of the cross and glanced round timidly. The schoolmaster had gone, he was alone, quite, quite alone.

"Who's there?" He started up in terror; he wanted to scream, but he could only utter a few inarticulate sounds. Somebody had opened the door. He blinked and tried to discover who the intruder was, but his eyes had grown very dim. Somebody was coming in, but it was not little BÖhnke. Who else could be coming to see him? A man--a woman?

"You?" he shouted, seizing hold of the bottle so as to defend himself with it. What did Sophia want? Was she coming to kill him now in the night? He hurled the bottle and it broke into bits on the floor.

"It's I, father," said Rosa, and she knelt down and collected the broken pieces of glass.

"Oh, it's you." He drew a long breath. Yes, now he could see it, it might be Rosa. The lamplight fell on her curly, reddish hair, and he bent a little forward as she knelt before him and took hold of it. "No, it's not Sophia," he said with a sigh of relief. But he was still suspicious. "What--what do you want?" he stammered.

She was glad to think that he at least recognized her. How unutterably heavy her heart felt. She had knelt in her room until her knees had ached, and had prayed and prayed. There had been no Marianna to groan on account of her everlasting whispering and sighing, for the girl had gone out. And when she had at last finished her prayers, she had sat down on her bed with her hands folded and waited patiently until there was not a sound downstairs. She wished to speak to her father quite alone, without being disturbed by any one. And if he had already gone to bed, she would sit down on his bed. How often she had had to do that as a child, and he had always been so affectionate to her in those days. Then she would say "Daddy," and stroke his hair as she used to do. Oh, she was quite sure it would be all right, for she had been praying for it so fervently.

But when her father stared at her with his dull, yet fierce eyes, she lost her assurance. "I wanted--I----" she stammered. She would have liked to cry aloud, he looked so awful. No, that was not her daddy, whose hair she had smoothed, on whose cheeks she had imprinted kisses--first on the right cheek and then on the left--her daddy who had called her, "My star, my little red-haired girl, my wee birdie, my sun, the key which is to open the door of heaven for me, my consolation."

She did not know how to begin, so she sat on the other chair near the table and gazed at him intently with her sad eyes. She had thrown the pieces of glass, which she had collected in her apron, into the peat basket near the stove, and now she wrapped her apron round her hands, for she shivered with cold, although the room was so stifling. What she had undertaken to do was too difficult after all; oh, it was her dread of him that made her feel so cold. She had never, never seen anything so horrible as this man who was her father. He used to be big, but now he seemed to have grown small; his coat was much too large for him across the shoulders and hung round him. A horrid grin made his lips droop, and his purple nose positively shone in his pale face, that was of a dirty yellow colour. The rims of his eyelids were puffy and turned outwards. But the worst of all was his eyes. Oh, those eyes!

Rosa felt as though she must protect herself from that well-nigh lifeless glance, which at that moment, however, had something glittering, even brutish, in it.

What was her father thinking of? Whom did he take her for? She gave a start. "Ha, ha! Marianna," he chuckled, stretching out a shaking finger towards her.

He touched her. "Ha, ha!--hope you're enjoying yourself--ha, ha!"

She had to keep a firm hold of herself so as not to scream aloud, and her hands closed over each other tightly under her apron. The mere fact of folding her hands calmed her. She had so often prayed for strength, and she was sure that He would not forsake her now. She felt as though she were the maiden whom she had been so fond of reading about in the book of holy legends, who had entered the fierce lion's cage undismayed, and had gladly given her blood for the sake of her Heavenly Bridegroom.

"Lord Jesus," she cried loudly and fervently, then, pressing her folded hands to her heart, she smiled at her father. "Daddy, my daddy."

For a few seconds the old man's grin grew even broader, but then his face became calm. Daddy? He looked at his daughter in astonishment and stammered, "Little BÖhnke has gone--who's speaking--so kindly?"

"I, Rosa."

He shook his head peevishly. "Don't want her."

A happy thought struck her. Laying her trembling hand on his, she said in a low, persuasive voice, "It's I, RÖschen, your little star, your red-haired girl, your wee birdie, your----" the tears welled into her eyes; she gulped them down bravely, but her voice choked.

Then he continued, "My sun, the key which is to open heaven's door for me--ah!"--he smirked as though he remembered something, and then added as tenderly as he could in his husky, faltering voice, "my consolation." He looked at her, felt her hair as he had done before, and passed his hands over her as she stood before him tall and slender, for she had jumped up from her knees in her bitter, painful emotion. "Too big--too big--you're not my wee one, not my little daughter--RÖschen--my sun--my consolation." And he looked down at the floor and smiled, as if a tiny little girl were standing there, who was not yet big enough to reach up to the table.

"But I am RÖschen," said the girl quickly, as she seized hold of his hands with her feeble ones, and pressed and shook them as if she wanted to bring him to his senses in that way.

He continued, however, to speak to an imaginary little child on the floor, as though he were mad or intoxicated. "Are you coming to daddy? Poor daddy is always alone, quite alone since little BÖhnke has gone." Then he added in a mysterious, almost unintelligible whisper, "Sophia is going to kill him--they'll all help to kill him--poor Mr. Tiralla." He shook his head miserably.

"Father, I--I'm with you--I'll stop with you," cried Rosa, shaken by his plaint. What awful things he imagined, poor, unhappy man. "I'll help you. And the Lord will help you, and His most Holy Mother Mary," she added solemnly, and made the sign of the cross on his forehead and breast as well as on her own. "May the Lord help you and us." And then she said resolutely and courageously--what was the good of hesitating? Had she not promised Mikolai to do it and also prayed about it?--"What you've been saying is not true, daddy. Nobody is going to do you any harm, neither mother nor anybody eke. You're not kind to mother. You're talking nonsense. Look, here is your RÖschen, feel my hands." She put her dry, burning hands round his wrists. "As true as I stand here, I swear that you've nothing to fear, we all lov----"--no, she must not lie, so she quickly corrected herself--"we all mean you well. Daddy, oh, my daddy!"

She let go of his wrists and impulsively pressed her hands to his cheeks, as she had so often done when she was small and her fingers had seemed no bigger than the legs of a fly that played about on his fat cheeks. "Oh, my dear daddy, if only you would stop drinking. Everything, everything would be better then. Then mother would no longer"--she suddenly stopped and the colour mounted to her brow; she did not mention her mother again. But her voice sounded so honest and convincing as she continued, "Then you would never have cause to fear any more. You would see then that nobody wishes you ill. And how happy Mikolai would be if you were to go into the stables and fields again, and talk to him about the work on the farm. Poor Mikolai, his friend is going away and he'll be so lonely. And you would feel much better yourself. You wouldn't cough so much--Marianna says you spit blood--you would be happy again; you wouldn't sit alone in this room any more, and you would see the wheat and the oats and the red clover that smells so sweet. Just think of it, daddy!"

She grew quite hot in her eagerness; at that moment she forgot all about her convent and that she would not be at StarydwÓr to see the improvement. And then as the last and best promise she said, "And you would still be saved, daddy; God in heaven would forgive your sins." Her eyes shone as she looked at him, as though she wanted to infect him with some of her own radiant happiness.

But his eyes did not shine. He was looking down in a dull-witted way and merely muttered, "Yes, you're Rosa."

Ah! now he knew her. The saints be praised, that was a big step forward. Putting her sweet face close to his, and without shrinking back from the poisonous breath that almost suffocated her, she whispered, "And Rosa will love you again, daddy; love you so dearly if you'll only leave off drinking." She pointed to a full bottle standing on the table next to an empty one, and some of the holy fury of the converters who used to fell oaks and shatter idols came over her. Raising her voice till it sounded almost triumphant she cried, "Throw it away, so that it breaks on the floor like the other bottle! Then the horrid gin will run between the boards down into the earth, down into hell, where it belongs. The evil thing will have gone, and we, father, we'll pray and give thanks."

"Listen!" She fell on her knees beside him and piously raised her hands. "Do you hear? The angels in heaven, with your guardian angel at their head, are shouting, 'Hallelujah'."

Mr. Tiralla mumbled something unintelligible.

Rosa did not hear it; she heard nothing more, for her soul had taken wings and flown out of the stifling room. God had heard her, the Lord was with her. The joy she felt almost overpowered her; her cheeks were wet with the tears of sweet exhaustion that comes when every nerve has been strained. What were all the joys of the world compared to the joy of saving her father and of delivering his soul from perdition? She buried her face in her hands, and a tremor passed over her.

There was silence in the room, but the storm was whistling and howling outside.

Mr. Tiralla had seized the bottle, but not to hurl it on the ground as Rosa had bidden him; he clasped it nervously to his breast, as if it were a priceless treasure that must be taken care of.

So they even wanted to rob him of that, the last thing he possessed? He would not let them take it from him, he would rather die. "Psia krew!" He swore so loudly that he startled his daughter.

Awakened out of her trance of bliss, Rosa saw with horror that her father was holding the bottle to his lips and drinking, drinking, hiccoughing and groaning, until he could drink no more, until the gin ran out again at the corners of his mouth. He sighed when he had to leave off; but he did not put the bottle on the table again, he hid it under his jersey.

"Go--go, girl," he growled angrily, and glared at her with malevolent eyes. "What do you want from me? My precious bottle"--he patted the place where he had hidden it--"you're the best friend I've got now. Come, my love, don't cry," he said, pinching Rosa's cheek as she sobbed. His spirits had improved since he knew the bottle was safe.

"My darling girl,
Why are you weeping?"