“Is it the devil?” he whispered to his mother in Galician.

“Kalman,” said the man quietly, in the Russian language, “come to me.  I am your father.”

The boy gazed at him fearful and perplexed.

“He does not understand,” said Paulina in Russian.

“Kalman,” repeated his father, using the Galician speech, “come to me.  I am your father.”

The boy hesitated, looking fixedly at his father.  But three years had wiped out the memory of that face.

“Come, you little Cossack,” said his father, smiling at him.  “Come, have you forgotten all your rides?”

The boy suddenly started, as if waking from sleep.  The words evidently set the grey matter moving along old brain tracks.  He walked toward his father, took the hand outstretched to him, and kissed it again and again.

“Aha, my son, you remember me,” said the father exultantly.

“Yes,” said the boy in English, “I remember the ride on the black horse.”

The man lifted the boy in his strong arms, kissed him again and again, then setting him down said to Paulina, “Let us go in.”

Paulina stepped forward and knocked at the door.  Mrs. Fitzpatrick answered the knock and, seeing Paulina, was about to shut the door upon her face, when Paulina put up her hand.

“Look,” she cried, pointing to the man, who stood back in the shadow, “Irma fadder.”

“What d’ye say?” enquired Mrs. Fitzpatrick.

“Irma fadder,” repeated Paulina, pointing to Kalmar.

“Is my daughter Irma in your house?” said he, stepping forward.

“Yer daughter, is it?” said Mrs. Fitzpatrick, looking sharply into the foreigner’s face.  “An’ if she’s yer daughter it’s yersilf that should be ashamed av it fer the way ye’ve desarted the lot o’ thim.”

“Is it permitted that I see my daughter Irma?” said the man quietly.

Mrs. Fitzpatrick scanned his face suspiciously, then called, “Irma darlin’, come here an’ tell me who this is.  Give the babby to Tim there, an’ come away.”

A girl of between eleven and twelve, tall for her age, with pale face, two thick braids of yellow hair, and wonderful eyes “burnin’ brown,” as Mrs. Fitzpatrick said, came to the door and looked out upon the man.  For some time they gazed steadily each into the other’s face.

“Irma, my child,” said Kalmar in English, “you know me?”

But the girl stood gazing in perplexity.

“Irma!  Child of my soul!” cried the man, in the Russian tongue, “do you not remember your father?” He stepped from the shadow to where the light from the open door could fall upon his face and stood with arms outstretched.

At once the girl’s face changed, and with a cry, “It is my fadder!” she threw herself at him.

Her father caught her and held her fast, saying not a word, but covering her face with kisses.

“Come in, come in to the warm,” cried the kind-hearted Irish woman, wiping her eyes.  “Come in out o’ the cold.”  And with eager hospitality she hurried the father and children into the house.