Beyond, above the shingled roof of the manor-house, two morose old firs rose towards heaven, their lowest branches touching the young grass. The house with its pillars reminded me of the old garden in Algyest which was my childhood’s delight. But here the soldiers had trampled down the grass of the lawn, and the heavy munition waggons had cut deep ruts in the road. Near the gate where the soldiers were, crumpled paper and broken bottles were lying about. But behind the house, on the other side, the garden was practically untouched, and amidst the young awakening of Spring it was beautiful in its wild tangle of growth. A door opened and an old lady came towards us. She had scarcely looked at me when she said: “You did well, child, to come to me.” She had scarcely looked at me! This was Hungary indeed—the old, hospitable Hungary which to-day is forbidden by the immigrants!... “Anyone receiving a visitor in his house will be summoned before the Revolutionary Tribunal....” The overgrown garden peeped in through the grated window; the trees were covered with moss, and old stone seats lined the path. Here was peace. The path was over-run with grass and my feet left no mark on it. I can stop here, even I to whom rest has been so long denied. No search will be made for me here, and I shall be able to sleep at night. There will be no knockings at my window, my dreams will not be haunted by the sound of cartwheels, the ringing of bells, the tramping of feet.... * * * * * Szügy, _April 28th_. The sun shone into the room; its rays rested on the old furniture and travelled on with soundless steps. Mrs. Beniczky, who was sitting at the writing table, turned now and then towards me and spoke in a low voice, cautiously, for listening ears are everywhere. She inquired about my family, for she had known the Földvárys in other days. My answers became more and more confused. Later on she began to talk of the Counter-revolution and mentioned my name, my real name, spoke of me, of my real self. The blood rushed to my face: she must have thought I had not heard her, for she repeated her question: “Do you know what happened to Cécile Tormay? My daughter met her last winter.” “They say she has escaped to Switzerland....” How ashamed of myself I felt! I had stolen into this house under a false name, with false credentials. I had asked my hostess for shelter, though I knew it meant danger to her. I hated myself, and it was on the tip of my tongue to tell her the truth. Oh, why could she not see that I was deceiving her, she who received me with the words: “You have done well, child, to come to me.” We were three at dinner: a visitor had come from Balassagyarmat to see Mrs. Beniczky. We talked of books, and the guest, who had no more notion of my identity than our hostess, mentioned _The Old House_.