should again enquire for his son. Once Loyka asked Staza herself whether she knew where Frank was. “I do not know,” said Staza, and after this she once more seated herself on her mother’s grave, buried her hot face in the clover, and doubtless told her mother to the very end what that other time she had only just begun to speak about.
In the meanwhile, Bartos went to the mayor, and both together went to the Loykas’ farm, and advised Frank how to manage his estate; instructed him, worked with him, and were always ready with friendly counsel.
Once Bartos came home and said to Loyka, “I know at last where Frank is.”
At these words Staza grew red and white several times in the same minute, just as though some one had announced to her that she must from that minute suffer some dire adversity.
“Frank is at home with his mother, who is sick unto death and longs for you to come and visit her,” exlaimed Bartos.
“I go to the farm!” began Loyka, vehemently. “To your wife, who is sick unto death,” put in Bartos. And here old Loyka was, for that day, completely metamorphosed. He did not speak a word, leant his head on his hands, turned over in his mind various plans and looked another man.
“So you think, Bartos, that I have to go to the farm,” he asked, as if on the brink of
