On the threshold of one of these log cabins--it stood at some distance back from the tracks, supported against a steep, rocky wall--sat a woman. She was barefooted, had a coarse, dark kerchief over her head, and the face underneath looked worn and showed that sallow complexion which constant work in the hot sun gives to a naturally pale face. Her brow was deeply lined, and around the mouth lay such a sad, forlorn expression that it made the woman appear much older than her years, and served to accentuate the immaturity of her form. The sun no longer stood high in the sky; most of the mountain-tops and slopes were already in deep shadow. But on the meadow in front of the house, and in the tree-tops along the wooded slope at its side, there still sparkled the bright sunshine, in which swarms of butterflies, bees, and dragon-flies played, dancing over the gay flowers. The lonely woman heeded none of all this grace and loveliness that summer had spread before her; she never looked away from her work of repairing the torn blouse of some one of the men. It was hard work, for her rough, callous hands, which held the needle rather awkwardly, had probably been used to only hoe and shovel. Approaching footsteps roused her finally, and, looking up, she noticed a man coming from the tracks toward the house; his appearance was pitiable. Over his small, weak-looking body he wore a much tattered soldier’s coat, which, far too long and wide, hung loosely about him, while a torn blue foraging cap was drawn far down over his face. He swayed in walking, although he held in his hand a knotty stick, on which he leaned heavily at times; the small knapsack that he carried strapped to his back was too empty to be much of a burden. As he drew nearer, his tired, colorless eyes looked shyly and embarrassed at the woman, who was watching him. “Is this Cabin No. 7?” he asked in a somewhat uncertain voice. “Yes, it is,” she answered, in that strange, harsh-sounding dialect spoken in Southern Bohemia. “What do you want?”