Jonitza and his mother were out early next morning after a breakfast of bacon and mamaliga.

The farm-house at which they were staying looked attractive in its cleanliness. It had been recently whitewashed and the doors and window frames painted a bright blue. It was built entirely of timber. The roof consisted of thin strips of wood laid closely row upon row. Near the house were some fruit-trees and lilac bushes and a small flower garden in which basil and gilliflowers, so often mentioned in Roumanian folk songs, were conspicuous.

Inside, the big living-room had a comfortable, homey air. The walls were partially covered with hand-woven tapestries. In one corner was a huge Dutch looking stove, while opposite, under an ikon, stood the primitive loom that is still to be seen in all Roumanian farm-houses. Besides the table on which the meals were served, there were some plain three-legged chairs, a large chest, a smaller table on which the basket of Easter eggs still stood, and a sort of couch which served Nicolaia as a bed at night. Its corn husk mattress had a pretty cover with an embroidered ruffle over it in the daytime. The straw pillows then changed their clothes for more fancy ones and were placed evenly against the wall.

Jonitza was anxious to show his mother the sportive pigs and he lost no time in marching her to them. When she had expressed sufficient admiration, they wandered to the well with its long sweep to which a rock was attached, and crossed themselves before the brightly painted crosses that were on each side of it. Katinka came out with a pitcher while they stood there, and knelt in prayer before the crosses before drawing up the water.

"Where is Nicolaia?" they asked her. She pointed to the cow-shed where they found him hard at work.

He smiled at them in greeting.

"This is my job," he said, "until I take the sheep to pasture in the mountains, for my mother is to let me do so this year."

Jonitza watched his robust companion with some envy as he went cheerfully about what he had to do. Nicolaia did it all easily and quickly; at the same time he did not neglect to make an occasional pleasant remark, and he did this with the courtesy that seems natural to the Roumanian peasant. Among other things he told them the names of some of the beautiful cream-colored oxen that his father owned. They were very high-sounding ones. There were Antony and CÆsar, Cassius and Brutus, Augustus, and, of course, Trajan, the finest-looking creature of all.

Then, almost without warning, the weather changed, a heavy rain setting in. This caused all, except the father who was absent, to gather in the big living-room. Here Katinka, in a matter-of-fact way, took out some embroidery on linen, which at the age of eight she was already getting ready for her bridal trousseau. Later she showed Mrs. Popescu a rug that she was beginning to weave as a covering for her bed.

In the meantime, Mrs. Popescu and Maritza also took out some embroidery, the peasant mother sat down at the loom, and Nicolaia brought out a bit of wood-carving. This, he said, was now being taught in the village school. Jonitza alone had no work. He stood for a while by the window watching the rain splash against it and the wind shake the trees as if it meant to uproot them. It was not long, however, before he wandered to where Nicolaia sat and watched him work.

Mrs. Popescu looked over at her idle son several times. A sudden inspiration made her say: "You seem to carve very nicely, Nicolaia. How would you like to be Jonitza's teacher and earn a little money of your own?"

"Will you?" asked Jonitza dropping on the floor beside Nicolaia. The peasant boy looked up with a pleased smile. "If you think I know enough," he answered modestly, "I'll be glad to teach you."

Here his mother could not keep from remarking with a proud air: "The school teacher takes an interest in Nicolaia. He has advised him to attend the Government School of Fruit Culture which is in the next village from ours. He says he would learn other things besides taking care of fruit-trees there. But that isn't possible, for he's promised as an apprentice to his uncle in Bukurest. Well, he'll learn a great deal there, too."

"Oh, mother," exclaimed Nicolaia when his mother had left the loom and taken up some knitting, "while we are working won't you sing some songs as you do when we're alone?"

His mother's fair face flushed as she looked shyly at Mrs. Popescu. "I must get things ready for the mid-day meal," she said rising.

As soon as her back was turned, Mrs. Popescu nodded to good-natured Maritza who understood and began to sing a song about a heiduk, the traditional hero of the Roumanian peasantry, a person as fascinating as our own Robin Hood. The song told how handsome he was, how winning his ways, how fearless his manner towards tyrants, how kind to the poor and unfortunate.

Nicolaia's mother was back in her place before the maid finished. "That was very nice, dear," she remarked. "And now I can't do less than sing a song, too. It'll be about a woman, the bravest shepherdess that ever was seen."

This was evidently a favorite with the children, for they joined in an odd refrain that occurred every once in a while.

She had scarcely finished when the sun came out to announce that the rain was over. A moment after the door opened and her husband entered.