lonely? Where is everybody?"

"Welcome, Palko," gladly replied the man. He held out his brown hand to the boy. "If I had known you would come, I would not have sent the boys to the church. Everywhere is the house of God. And I suppose you are bringing the Bible, about which you spoke yesterday?"

"Yes, I do. My father went away for a few days. He asks you kindly if you will let me stay with your boys that I may not have to stay alone in the hut. Will you take me?"

The beautiful eyes of the boy gazed longingly on the face of the man.

"Why, surely. We will be only too glad if you stay with us," answered
Bacha. "But why did your father go home?"

"He went with some wood. He could not take it all at once. The balance we shall put on a float, and so carry it to our destination. Thus I could bring the Bible to show it to you."

"Is that the one from Pastor Malina?"

"Yes, Uncle, and I esteem it very much. There are many notes in Latin which I do not understand, and also some in Slovak. When I look at the writing I see the pastor in front of me. I would like to show you what he wrote the last Sunday when he became so seriously ill. Do you have time for it, Uncle?"

"Oh, yes, my son; it is Sunday. Just read on."

"You will understand it better than I because you are older. There is something very good: 'I have missed very much; my whole life is wasted,' began the boy, and his voice sounded so solemn, almost as if he were reading the Word of God. 'Even though I would, I cannot improve anything. It is too late; it is too late! Souls passed into eternity—it may be I did not bring salvation to them. They never come back that I may ask them forgiveness and love them. Oh, how glorious are the words, 'By grace ye are saved … it is the gift of God.' In this holy gift I take my refuge, my holy God and Saviour. I know that You have pardoned me and have even taken the punishment that I merited on Yourself. I cling to Thy cross; I fall at Thy wounded feet, and thank Thee—Oh, so thank Thee; yes, I will praise eternally Thy holy name, O Jesus!'" read Palko.

"Thus believed Pastor Malina …" but the boy stopped because the
Bacha sat with his head bowed down, and cried aloud.

"'Even if I would, I couldn't make anything good. It is too late. The souls went on to accuse me,'" he repeated in his crying. "That is what is pressing me down to the ground, and all my good life since that time doesn't help anything …"

The boy rested his curly head in the palms of his small hands.

"Uncle, will you not tell me what is worrying you so much? It could not be the sin that you wanted to drown your Stephen, as Petrik told me?"

"Stephen didn't drown. I, when something is pressing me, confess it and feel easier at once."

"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.'

"I noticed how mother gave a sigh of relief, but to me it seemed as if someone stuck a dagger into me. They surely expected me to go. Stephen would remain at home and take Eva. That night I did not sleep at home. A similar trouble overtook me as in my childhood, only stronger and much more terrible. Where I gathered strength to return in the morning I do not know. Eva ran to meet me, and as soon as I saw her I told myself that verily, I would never go to America, and Eva must never belong to anyone else but to me. Since that hour I could hardly give a kind look to Stephen though he gave me no reason for anger.

"We had a meadow beyond the swamp. There I went with Eva the next day to turn over the cut grass, and I asked her to be mine. I did not have much luck at first, but since I pleaded so much and promised so much, she finally promised that she would not take anyone else.

"After the affair was settled, Eva bound up a bundle of grass, and looking around I noticed Stephen departing along the pathway. He had heard us without us noticing him.

"The following week we had some work in the city and Stephen said that he would go. Mother tried to prevent him. She had rather I should go because Stephen did not look very well. Really he looked thin and pale, as if after a serious illness or before one. But I insisted that I would not go this time, and father agreed. He had some work for me.

"'Come with me part of the way,' said Stephen the following day, after he had taken leave of our parents and Eva. So I went. We took the steep path to the cross above, on top of the hill. There he stopped. We looked at each