warm along the sward, perhaps even the dead felt it. Then once more Staza tripped away and vanished through the door of the grave-digger’s abode, and the place was again untenanted. No song nor dance was there, only the jointed grasses raised aloft their jaded limbs. And now it seemed to Frank that after all the place was cold and gloomy.
But lo! there was Staza once again with fresh water and once again was like a butterfly and once again was buzzing like a bee and once again was watering the flowers everywhere, approaching even almost to the gate. Frank was apprehensive lest she should catch sight of him; if she caught sight of him all must be at an end; he stepped aside a little towards the wall and only just bent his head towards the gate and peeped. Staza was again singing “odpocinte v pokoji”, and now she mingled with it divers other tunes. She drew them forth from her inmost soul one after the other, just as we draw out from a wardrobe dress after dress in order that we may look through them and give them an airing. Even those melodies needed an airing from time to time lest they should be jumbled together in her bosom.
Frank, standing by the gate, felt himself every moment growing more at ease; as though some one had given him in that accursed place a silver clue, and he had caught hold of it. Again he emerged from his hiding-place and boldly posted himself in front of the gate, indifferent now as to whether Staza saw him there or no.
Staza saw him, she stopped, she ceased to sing, and looked towards the gate only just a moment to see whether the young visitor wished to enter or whether he wished to give some message.
When Frank did not speak she advanced several steps towards the gate, and then said, “And so it is at your house, Frank, is it? Wait and I will go and call tatinka.” And she ran into the grave-digger’s abode. Frank was lost in amazement to know how the girl could read in his face what was passing in his inmost soul. We, however, need no explanation of the mystery. They had heard the funeral bell, and Bartos had said to Staza, “Where is it, I wonder?” And he waited expecting some one to give orders about a grave. Staza now saw Frank and said, as if repeating her father’s question, “And so it is at your house!”
When Bartos sallied forth with Staza he had already a pick on his shoulder and Staza had in her hands a shovel, wherewith,
