“The Apostle James says, ‘Confess your sins one to another.’  It is true I am only a boy, but I know already how the soul and the heart ache—­and there is no comforter.  But the Lord Jesus will grant it to me that I may be able to understand and to help you.”

The man looked at the boy.  He stroked his whiskers.  “If I have to tell somebody about it as I have wished for years, it will suit me best to tell it to you.  The Lord God gave you more wisdom than me, an old man, just as Samuel the boy had more than the old priest Eli.”

Bacha strode over to his stump where he usually sat.  Palko lay beside him on the grass.  He drew the Bible near him, and laid his hand on the head of Fido who cuddled close beside.  Thus he waited patiently.

“Since Petrik told you what kind of a boy I was, I do not have to retell it again,” began the man presently.  His whole appearance did not fit into that beautiful Sunday morning.

“Thus we both grew up, and I can say with a good conscience that Stephen and I loved each other very much.  I could never forget that he did not tell our parents how I forsook him in his plight.  He convinced me that our parents loved us both.  All was well now and might have remained so always, had not mother after her sister’s death brought to us her niece, Eva.  She was a small beautiful girl.  From the beginning she seemed to be afraid of me, but with Stephen she was at once, friendly, until I once saved him from vicious dogs.  From that time she clung always to me.  Thus it was as we grew up together, and after we were grown up.  You cannot understand more now, therefore I can only tell you this much.  When we became young men, there was no more beautiful girl to us in the whole wide world.  It seemed to me that her black eyes shone brighter than all the stars, and that such lilies and roses as were on her face did not bloom on any bush.  At that time there was a large immigration to America.  Many times I wondered how people, just for the sake of mammon, could go so far into the world when in spite of our poverty it was so beautiful and lovely here.  To me, the woods and meadows were like a paradise and in my heart all was song—­like the heavens; but there is no paradise upon this earth and the heavens are too high.  Once when I returned from work—­it was already evening—­mother and father sat in front of the house in consultation about us children, as they often did.  I did not want to disturb them, therefore I sat down not very far away and listened.”

“Do you think, then,” said mother, “that one of the children will have to go to America?”

“You see, my wife, there the people achieve something quicker than we do here.  We suffer bravely and yet barely live,” sighed father.  He was a good man but already worn out by hard labor.

“‘And which one do you think should?’ mother asked with a sigh.

“’That we will leave for them to decide.  I think thus:  Let one stay at home and take Eva for his wife, so you have some help.  Let the other one go to America for a few years, and after he has made some money and God granting that he will return safely, then they may live together.  I would not like that after our death they should be separated.  It is well for them to be together.’