e the pick for
the rifle, and shall I, their master, shirk my duty?"

"Manasseh is right," declared Anna. "What will do for a grandson of
Methuselah will not do for an Adorjan. When an Adorjan's name is called
he must answer to it like a man. Our brother will be the pride of his
regiment, and will soon rise to be an officer; then he can obtain his
discharge and come home."

Manasseh pressed his sister's hand in gratitude for these words of
courage and good cheer.

"Yes, but suppose he has to go to war?" objected Blanka.

"Never fear," returned her husband. "Even if Austria becomes involved in
the present dispute, the Hungarian regiments are not likely to be sent
to the front. They will be stationed in Lombardy, where all is as quiet
as possible."

"Then I will go with you," said Blanka, brightening up.

"No, you must stay with us," Anna interposed. "You and the children are
best cared for here, and, besides, if Manasseh goes away you will have
to look after the iron works. New hands are to be engaged, and ever so
much is to be done all over again. How can you think of leaving us in
the lurch? There will be no one but you to manage things; you alone can
direct the works and put bread into our poor people's mouths."

"Ah, me!" sighed the distressed wife; "and must I live perhaps a whole
year without seeing Manasseh--a whole autumn, winter, spring, and
summer?"

Anna's eyes filled with tears and a sigh escaped her lips. How many a
season had she seen pass, without hope and without complaint! Blanka
knew the meaning of those tears, and she hastened to kiss them away.

And so it came about that the Toroczko young men, and Manasseh with
them, were sent off to Lombardy. Thence every month came a letter to
Toroczko, to Blanka Adorjan, from her devoted husband. The very first
one told her how he had risen from private to corporal and then from
corporal to sergeant. But there he stuck. On parting with his wife, he
had consoled her with the confident assurance that in a year, at most,
she would see him return; but the year lengthened into five. Little Bela
no longer sent meaningless scrawls to his father, but wrote short
letters in a round, clear hand, and even added verses on his father's
birthday. But not a single furlough could that father obtain to go home
and see his dear ones. Nor did he gain his long-expected promotion to a
lieutenancy. The colonel of the regiment wrote letters with his own
hand to Blanka, praisi