ing
around.

How terrible it was! The old man was spoiling both house and farm for
him. He clenched his fists and a sigh of indignation was wrung from
him; why, it would have been better if his stepmother had not cut him
down!

He made the sign of the cross as though to confirm the thought. Then he
turned to go indoors again. What could he do out there? There was no
work to be done, a grey, heavy November mist hung over everything. What
had become of Martin? He could no longer understand his friend. How
well they had formerly assisted each other to kill time during these
dark days. But now Martin could find no rest at Starydwor, he took no
pleasure in anything, all he thought of was the first of December, when
he was to leave them.

The lonely man shivered. Rosa would also be leaving after Christmas;
even now she sat in her room upstairs as if it were a cell, and she was
happy only when praying alone. She hardly ever appeared downstairs, she
seemed to shun everybody. How different it all might have been, how
splendid! But his father had ruined everything, everything.

[Pg 282]

The man uttered a curse as he entered the house. He went in search of
his friend. Martin, however, was not pleased to see him; he had begun
to turn his drawers and looked up disagreeably surprised when Mikolai
came so unexpectedly into the room.

"What do you want?" he asked in an angry voice, hastily throwing a
bundle of clothes into his box which he locked.

"Are you already packing?" inquired Mikolai. Then he added, "I suppose
you can't await the day of your departure? But it hasn't come yet."

Martin cast an uncertain glance at his friend. "I know that," he said
softly, and then added hastily and in a louder voice, as though he
wanted to convince himself and friend of the truth of what he was
saying, "I'm not thinking of it either. There's plenty of time; I'm not
in any hurry."

Who believed that? Mikolai no longer believed his friend; why did he
not look him in the face? _Psia krew_, something had come between
Martin and him which he could not fathom, but it was there,
nevertheless.

He felt very dejected as he left the room, the walls of which had so
often echoed with their laughter. Now no laughter resounded within the
thick walls of the old house. He stumbled up the dark stairs to Rosa's
room; he would go to her and say, "Come, laugh with me, Roeschen, or at
least talk to me. I can't bear it any longer."

But when he sudde