only between themselves and prayed for the lady very much.  She seemed to recognize no one.  She lay in her bed like a beautiful flower broken from its stem.  In vain did Ondrejko whisper to her, and stroke and kiss her.  She looked at him but did not answer.  Only one thing consoled her poor child, that she had an expression, whether she slept or not, as though she were very happy.  At times she sang beautiful songs to the honor of the Lamb; other times again, a sea ballad, and after that always the song, “My faith looks up to Thee.”  Thus two weeks passed by without any change.

In the meantime Lesina came; he finished what was necessary and went away, but did not take Palko with him.  He could not do that to Ondrejko, who nestled to his comrade like a little bird driven out of its nest.  The doctor said Ondrejko would surely be sick if his comrade left him just at this time.  Bacha promised Lesina that he himself would take Palko home when the lady got better, because he believed that the lady would get well, although the doctor gave no hope that she would not die or that she would not lose her mind.  For this reason also, Lesina could not take Palko away, for it seemed that the sick lady knew him.  When he read in his Book she looked at him as if she listened, and though she did not say anything, she was always so quiet and happy.

In the meantime the answer came from Paris, and the unfortunate lady did not know that the boy who sat beside her bed so pale, now belonged only to her, and that no one else had any right to him.  Neither did she know about another message—­yes, even two; one coming from Hamburg in which her father announced that he had arrived safely; the other announcing his coming on Saturday evening to the nearest railway station.  The Bacha very sadly stood at the foot of the lady’s bed with both messages in his hands, and Aunty Moravec cried bitterly.

“What shall we do, Bacha Filina?  He is coming from such a distance and knows nothing.  How will he take it, when he finds her thus, and will hear that because of his telegram this sickness overcame her?  Previously, in Russia, the doctors had told her that some day her nerves might give way.  Oh, what will the poor father say?  He wanted to give her joy, and it has turned out like this.”

“What God does and permits, is always good,” Filina said, nodding his head.  “Do not worry; I am going for her father, and on the way will prepare him for what he will find here.”

“Bacha Filina, take me along to meet Grandfather,” begged Ondrejko, when Bacha was getting ready in the afternoon.

“I am going on foot; that would be too far for you, my boy,” said Bacha, stroking the boy’s head.  “You just remain with your mother and wait for your grandfather here.  At the station I shall take a carriage; I think that in the evening, about eight o’clock, we shall be here.”