"I say that ..." She ceased speaking, for there was a queer feeling in
her throat.

"Well?"

"That you are very volatile, and ..."

"And?"

"And that ... Let us run back and look for my ring."

With that she turned, and ran as fast as she could to the part of the
meadow in which they had been standing when she threw the ring away.
Gyuri could hardly keep up with her.

They looked for the ring a long time, but it was not to be found. And
soon Father Janos appeared on the scene.

"I say, Gyuri, don't say anything about the umbrella to my brother."

"No, my darling, I will never mention it."

His reverence gave Veronica a good scolding.

"You naughty girl! Is that the way to behave? How you frightened us! Of
course you were chasing a butterfly?"

"No, I was running away from one, but it caught me."

"What, the butterfly?"

"Yes, that ugly, big butterfly standing beside you."

His reverence understood as much as he was meant to, and set to work,
too, to look for the ring. But they might have looked for it till
Doomsday if Mr. Gongoly had not passed that way. Veronica had quite
despaired of finding the ring.

"Well, well, my dear," said the nabob of Glogova, shaking back his long
gray hair, "never mind, trust in Gongoly, he will find it for you. There
is only one way to do it, so in an hour's time they will be making hay
in this field."

* * * * *

Though the grass was not two inches high (it had only been cut a
fortnight before), Mr. Gongoly sent his men there to mow it, with the
result that next day the ring was safely resting on Veronica's finger.
And for years the people spoke of the wonderful fact that in that year
Mr. Gongoly's meadow gave two crops of hay, and it was always mentioned
if any one spoke disparagingly of the Glogova fields.

What more am I to say? I think I have told my story conscientiously. All
the same there are some things that will never be known for certain; for
instance, what really became of Pal Gregorics' fortune, for there is no
sign of it to this day. Was the supposed receipt in the handle of the
umbrella or not? No one will ever know, not even little Matyko, who
drank the water with three sparks in it. No king drinks such precious
liquid as he did--if the story be true.

The legend of the holy umbrella is still believed in in those parts. Mr.
Sztolarik, who was fond of a gossip, certainly told his version of the
story, how old Muencz the