Wolska, pointing to one containing cook-ing-apples, and another dried peas. "You can have whichever suits you best."
"Thank you, noble lady," said Filip, and he knelt down briskly on the sanded brick floor, and took out his foot-rule. His wife stood leaning against a flour-barrel, and watched him with weary eyes.
After a hasty measurement, and a short mental calculation, Filip decided in favor of the apples. "If your worship would kindly direct the case to be emptied, the wife will come and fetch it in the morning. To-day we can only carry the boards from the stack-yard, and I shall be busy with my work all the forenoon."
"Very well," said Madame Wolska, and then they took their leave, Sophie remarking at parting, "What ails your wife, Filip?" for she was looking pale, and had not spoken a word the whole time.
"Only the heat, gracious lady," said Filip — "only the heat, and maybe she's a bit tired with the work, for she is a rare good one for helping me; she is of more use to me than two lads, and as strong as a man almost."
Sophie Wolska returned to the verandah after the peasants had left her, and finished the chapter of the novel she had been reading; then when it became too dark to read, she took up her knitting and worked away till the lights were brought and tea was ready, letting her thoughts travel backwards and forwards over many things the while. She passed over her wardrobe in mental review, and decided that she would require nothing new till next spring. "My old black cashmere futro (fur cloak) will do quite well for here in the country," she said. "Only new lining for the pockets and collar will be necessary." Then she reckoned up how many pots of jam she would still require to make. "It would be wiser to preserve all the melons," she thought, "and not eat any of them fresh this year; they were apt to disagree in time of cholera." Then taking a range into the more remote future, she speculated a little, upon what sort of dresses she would have next year, and what sort of husband she would have some day. The little episode about the coffins had not left any particularly depressing impression upon her mind. She was not a nervous woman, and did not feel shocked at being thus rudely brought face to face with the vulgar and prosaic machinery of death and burial, as by rights a fine lady should be. Of course if people died they had to be buried, and coffins had to be procured somehow.
CHAPTER II.
THE SECOND PACKING-CASE.
" I know when one is dead and when one lives; She's dead as earth."
Next morning early, as Magda was standing in the verandah dusting the benches and preparing the breakfast-table, she looked down the road that led to the village and saw a figure coming slowly up the hill.
The day promised again to be a glorious harvest-day, one of the days wanted to put the crown to the summer's work. The little lake was unruffled by any breeze, but still sent forth a slight mist, which the sun was gradually dispersing, but as yet enveloped part of the landscape as with a hazy veil. Therefore Magda did not at once distinguish the approaching figure. Presently, as it came nearer, she recognized it to be Filip Buska. This surprised her slightly, for surely it had been settled the previous evening that his wife was to come for the apple-case.
"Good-morrow to you. So you have come yourself?" she said interrogatively, as he reached the house, noting as an unusual circumstance, that although the air was still fresh and pleasant, and he was a strong and healthy man, yet the heavy drops of perspiration were standing on his brow.
"Yes; I have come myself," he answered gloomily, not responding to her morning salutation, and wiping his forehead with his sleeve.
"The case is empty; I have just emptied it. Will you come and take it?"
"I wish to see the gracious lady for a moment," answered Filip.
On the part of any one else it would have been an unheard-of presumption to request to see the lady of the house at so unseasonable an hour; but Filip was an exceptional and privileged person, and had, moreover, a certain inborn authority in his manner, which rarely failed to enforce obedience to his wishes, so that when he said to Magda, "I wish to speak to your mistress," she answered, —
"I shall go and see whether she is awake; perhaps you will sit down and rest on this bench meanwhile."
Without thanking her, he sat down, and Magda, cautiously opening the door of Madame Wolska's bedroom, saw that her mistress was already attired in dressing-gown, and sitting before her mirror.
"Yes — the gracious pani would see
