As Roman Savicky straightened his strong frame and turned round, he saw a white face with blue eyes in the doorway. He stood transfixed with astonishment; the girl watched him, smiling shyly. "Ha! ha!" laughed old Savicky, "how now? Do you not know each other? Ah! Kiss each other, you have known Magdalena ever since she was a child." The young people approached each other in silence, the girl offered her cheek with eyelids lowered, and Roman kissed her. "I did not recognize her," said Roman, "she has grown so big." His mother laughed softly. "You, too, Roman, you have grown much bigger--and handsome." "Naturally our Roman is handsome," said the old man, "our own Roman, old lady." Again the mother kissed her son. Roman seated himself upon a chair in the veranda, the old man placed himself on his right, and the mother on the left; they watched him, feasting their eyes upon him. "My darling! my darling!" he said to the old woman, "it is long since I have seen you." In the end they grew silent, looking intently at one another, smiling. The gentle rustle of the lime trees broke the heat and stillness of the August day. "Whence do you come, Roman?" questioned the old man suddenly. "From Warsaw," said his son, raising his head. The old man opened wide his eyes, then he turned towards Ana. "Do you hear that, old lady, from Warsaw?" The old lady nodded her head, and said wonderingly: "From Warsaw!" "Yes," said Roman, "I have journeyed throughout Poland, full of bitterness, and I have wandered among our exiled brothers in all parts of the world." Profound misery rang in his powerful voice. The old people looked smilingly at him, lovingly, but without understanding him. All acute feeling for their country had long ago died away in their hearts. They sat looking happily into the blue eyes of their Roman, at his fair, smooth face, at his beautiful luxuriant hair. The young man began to speak. Gradually his voice rose, it rang powerfully, full of sorrow and bitterness. Where had he not been! He had been everywhere, and everywhere he had met exiled Poles, pining away among strangers, dying far from the land of their fathers. Everywhere the same longing, everywhere the same sorrow. Tyrants ruled over the old hearth, the cry of the oppressed rent the air, patriots lay in chains or trod the road to Siberia, crowds fled from the homes of their fathers, strangers swept like a flood into their places. "Roman, Roman!" said the old woman, bursting into tears, "how beautifully you talk." "Beautifully talks our Roman, old lady," said Vladimir Savicky sadly, "beautifully, but he brings us sad tidings." And in the old man's soul old longings and bitter memories began to stir. On the threshold Magdalena stood dismayed and shuddered as she looked at Roman. Suddenly two old men entered by the door. One had thick, grizzled whiskers, the other a long beard in which shone silver threads.