ran along his arm, and jumped on to the box. Holding his breath. Prokop watched its rosy little paws searching among the tickets. Finally it took one in its little teeth and tried to pull it out. Somehow or other it succeeded, shook its head and at once seized the next one, pulling that out also. Then it sat up on its hind legs, gnawing at its tiny paws.
“This is your love,” whispered the old man, elated. Out with it.”
Prokop took hold of the ticket and bent over the light. It was the photograph of a girl . . . the one whose hair was all loose; her lovely breast was bare, and the eyes were the same, passionate and deep—Prokop recognized her. “Grandfather, that’s not the one!”
“Show me,” said the old man with surprise, taking the picture out of his hand. “Ah, that’s a pity,” he croaked regretfully. “Such a beauty! Lala. Lilitko, that isn’t the one, nanana ks ks ma—la!” He put the photograph back in the box and again softly whistled. The little mouse looked about with its red eyes, again took the same ticket in its teeth and tugged with its head. But the ticket would not come out; instead it pulled out the next.
Prokop took up the picture; it was Annie, a photograph taken in the village; she did not know what to do with her arms, had her Sunday clothes on and stood there silly and beautiful—“That’s not her,” whispered Prokop. The old man took the picture from him, smoothed it and appeared to be saying something to it. He looked at Prokop uneasily and sadly and again gave a faint whistle.
“Are you angry?” asked Prokop shyly.
