ll, nor hear the cock crowing, the
clatter of the milk pails, the squeaking of the chain in [Pg 154] the
old well, nor the lowing of the cattle. She had fallen into a dead
sleep. And when she at last started up in confusion, awakened by Rosa's
caressing touch, she did not venture to go downstairs. She sent the
child. "Look if he's up."

But Rosa did not return. Why did she not come? Mrs. Tiralla waited and
waited; the minutes seemed to lengthen themselves into hours. Holy
Mother, what had happened downstairs, as the child did not return?
Courage, courage, courage! She pressed both hands to her heart that was
throbbing furiously. If only she had never come to Starydwor, if only
she had remained the poorest among the poor, the most wretched among
the wretched.

She listened involuntarily. Hark, was that not his voice? No, neither
scream nor groan reached her ear. There was no help for it, she would
have to go downstairs. It would seem so strange if she were to remain
in her room any longer; she would have to go down at once.

She drew a deep breath, tore the door open, took a run and rushed
downstairs. Where was he lying? Where should she find him?

"Good morning," said Mr. Tiralla. He was in a good humour and was just
coming out of his room. His eyes were still full of sleep and he was
rubbing them.

But his eyes were quite clear, they still saw the light of day. The
woman started back as though she had seen a ghost.

"Why are you so frightened, eh?" he cried, laughing. "You've slept too
long, I suppose? Ha, ha."

She did not answer. Even if her life had depended upon it, she could
not have uttered a single word. It was too terrible, too terrible!

He did not pay any attention to her silence nor to [Pg 155] her
disturbed looks. He was in a very happy frame of mind and was waving a
letter in his hand, a letter from his soldier son.

Mikolai had not written for a long time, he did not care for writing.
But now he wrote:

"Dear Parents,--Your son, Mikolai, sends you his love, and he is very
well. I can tell you I am pleased to get away from the army. It is not
the work for me, I prefer to till the ground. And my friend, Martin
Becker, who is a miller by profession, but has not got a mill at
present, because, although he has some money, it is not enough to buy a
big mill, and he won't have a small one, will come home with me. He
will help to manage the farm. Dear father, you will not want so many
hands then; we