were harps with it. And it would seem that to-night there are no harps with it.”
There were no harps with it, to be sure, but all the same it was accompanied by the audible weeping of his own son.
“And it pleases me to find that they know it here in the cemetery. Prithee, lead me to those musicians, and let them play on. And if they do not wish to play, tell them that you are from Loyka’s farm and then, of course, they will play, for they will remember Loyka although he rules his home no more.”
And he went with Vena several steps in the direction of the singing and crying, where Frank knelt sobbing and Staza knelt singing. When he came to them, Frank embraced his knees, and eried “Papa! Papa!” Staza was silent.
“Papa!” said Loyka. “I might have known that they would recognize me here. Where they are skilled in singing and playing, there they know old Loyka. So hallo! and play something lively that I may have a dance here.” And this poor old man here in the grave-yard struck an attitude as though he would caper about, and as though he were ready for a fling.
And here Frank, falling upon his knees, continually embraced his father’s feet, and, sobbing piteously, exclaimed, “Papa! Papa!”
“Why dost thou clog my feet like a moist clod of earth when I wish to dance a measure?” said Loyka to Frank, whom he did not recognize. “It is a disgusting habit, and looks as though thou hadst come to me for alms.”
“Papa! Papa!” cried Frank.
“Ah! I know thee now. I recognize thee now. Thou art the ghost of my son Frank, and walkest here in the cemetery. But thou art not Frank. He tramps it with the musicians, whom they chevied from my house—and that pleases me.”
“Papa, it is I”, cried Frank.
“Thou art not he, because thou hast no harp with thee. Look you, there is no harp here, so you will not persuade me. But if thou wert a worthy ghost thou wouldst lead me to my Frank; I would gladly see him and those musicians with whom he tramps the world, and I would tramp it, too.”
“I will lead you home, papa”, cried Frank.
“Thou shalt not lead me thither; for me, I want no home. But I want to leave home far behind, like my son Frank. I want to tramp it with the musicians, that they may compose a song about it, and may point to me on the market-places and say that I am he, I am that old Loyka, who dares no more have music in his
