back when the Judge, as he was crossing the threshold, savagely addressed to him the epithet, "Heathen!"

Outside, he hung his rightful property around his neck, and notwithstanding that it had become dark, he started for home by an unused route. He did not want to meet with men just then. He probably felt that he was no longer a man.

From his face naught could be read; seemingly it was calm. Probably it even expressed some satisfaction on account of the regained fur cloak. Truly there must be a stone in the place of the heart of this man.

When he reached the rivulet at the foot of the Majornok mountain opening, (just there where, it is said, the soul of Mistress Gebyi rides nightly on frightened horses) he stumbled over something in the way.

It was a beggar's bag filled with pieces of dry bread. Its owner must have prayed successfully—there was enough of the daily bread there even for tomorrow.

But lo! there lies the owner thereof beneath a tree, a ragged beggar woman, in her lap a child.

He placed the bag at their side and then lit a match to see better whether or not they were dead.

Their heavy breathing revealed that both were alive, mother and child; exhausting fatigue alone could have sent them into such profound slumber. The cold weather, the bitter wind and the ragged dress are not favorable to such sleep. Only they can sleep as these do, who are exhausted. Their faces, especially that of the child, are already blue from cold and the tiny limbs tremble like frozen jelly.

Filcsik took out his pipe from the pocket of his coat, filled and lit it, and then sat down on the ground beside the sleepers.

He looked at them a long time. He could see very well; the sky was full of stars. The stars looked at him and perhaps beckoned to him encouragingly.

All at once he bent lower over the sleepers; his forehead was perspiring, his head was bowed down and the famous fur cloak slipped off his shoulders. It was well, for he was warm anyhow. And then the fur cloak never burdened him as much as now; it had never been as heavy as at present.

When it slipped down, he suddenly picked it up and spread it over the two sleepers.

Then he jumped up and slowly and thoughtfully began to walk towards home. Once he stood still, then retraced his steps. Did he intend to go back for it?

No, no! what would those million eyes looking at him from above say to that!

Now he hurried; he almost ran towards home.

The night was quiet but cold. The old man was without his fur cloak and yet he felt no cold.

One thought warmed him within, in that place where other men have their hearts but where, according to general belief, providence had substituted in him a stone.

Since that time he has had no fur cloak. But for all that he speaks of it as if he still possessed it. He brags of it, he bets on it.

Men know the fact already and were they not afraid of his vituperative proclivities they would laugh at him; as it is, they don't concern themselves about him. God, men, have turned from him because he is a godless, unchristian fellow. If one of these days he dies on a heap of straw, a raven or a crow will act as mourner, the ditch of the churchyard will be his resting place.