'It was like this: I arrive at the manor, and when I look up I see that all the windows of the large room on the ground floor are wide open. God forbid! has some one died? I think to myself. I peep in and see Mateus, the footman, in a white apron with brushes on his feet, skating up and down like the boys on the ice. "The Lord be praised, Mateus, what are you doing?" I say. "In Eternity, I am polishing the floor," says he; "we are going to have a big dance here to-night." "Is the squire up yet?" "He is up, but the tailor is with him; he is trying on a Crakovian costume. My lady is going to be a gipsy." "I want him to sell me that field," I say. Mateus says: "Don't be a fool! how can the squire think of your field, when he is amusing himself making up as a Crakovian." So I go away from the window and stand about near the kitchen for a bit. They are bustling like anything, the fire is burning like a forge, and the butter is hissing. Presently Ignaz, the kitchen boy, comes out, covered with blood, as if he had been stuck. "Ignaz, for God's sake, what have you been doing?" I ask. "I haven't been doing anything; it's the cook, he's been boxing my ears with a dead duck." "The Lord be praised it is not your blood. Tell me where I can find the squire." "Wait here," he says, "they'll bring in the boar, and the squire is sure to come and have a look at it." Ignaz runs off, and I wait and wait, until the shivers run down my back. But still I wait.' 'Well, and did you see the squire?' Slimakowa asked impatiently. 'Of course I saw him.' 'Did you speak to him?' 'Rather!' 'What did you settle?' 'Well...ah...I told him I wanted to beg a favour of him about the field, but he said, "Oh, leave me alone, I have no head for business to-day."' 'And when will you go again?' Slimak held up his hands: 'Perhaps to-morrow, or the day after, when they have slept off their dance.' That same day Maciek drove a sledge to the forest, taking with him an axe, a bite of food, and 'Silly Zoska's' daughter. The mother had never asked after her, and Maciek had mothered the child; he fed her, took her to the stable with him at night and to his work in the day-time. The child was so weak that it hardly ever uttered a sound. Every one, especially Sobieska, had predicted her early death. 'She won't last a week.'...'She'll die tomorrow.'...'She's as good as gone already.' But she had lived through the week and longer, and even when she had been taken for dead once, she opened her tired eyes to the world again. Maciek paid no attention to these prognostications. 'Never fear,' he said, 'nothing will happen to her.' He continued to feed her in the cowshed after dark. 'What makes you take trouble about that wretched child, Maciek?' Slimakowa would say; 'if you talked to her about the Blessed Bible itself she would take no notice; she's dreadfully stupid, I never saw such a noodle in all my life.'