With this cheerful morning greeting the wife of Michael Szalmás, the notary, saluted the pastor's daughter, as the latter came to the door of the little parsonage for the hundredth time and looked up the street along which she had seen her father drive away two weeks before. The young girl went back into the house, sat down at her work-table, and resumed her sewing. She had hardly done so, however, when a carriage drove up and stopped in front of the parsonage. She sprang to her feet and hastened joyfully to the door. Was it really her father come back to her? Upon opening the door she started back in surprise. Not her father, but the widowed Baroness Baradlay, dressed in deep mourning, which accentuated her pallor, stood before Aranka. The girl bowed and kissed with deep respect the offered hand of the high-born lady. "Good morning, my child," said the visitor. "I have come to have a talk with you on certain matters that must be settled between us." Aranka offered the lady a seat on the sofa. The widow motioned to the girl to be seated opposite her. "First," she began, "I must inform you, to my great regret, that your father has got into trouble on account of his prayer at my husband's funeral. I am sorry, but it can't be helped. He will probably lose his pastorate, and that is not the worst of it." "Then the rumours that we hear are true," sighed the girl. "Even his personal liberty is in danger," continued the lady. "He may be imprisoned, and if so, you will not see him for a long time." Aranka bowed in silence. "What will you do when you are left alone and thrown upon your own resources?" "I am prepared for the worst," was the calm reply. "Pray look upon me as your well-wisher and would-be benefactress," said the widow. "My bereavement is the indirect cause of your misfortune, which I should like to make as light for you as possible. Speak to me unreservedly, my child. Whither will you go, and what do you intend to do? I will help you all I can." "I shall stay here, madam," returned the other, straightening herself with dignity and calmly meeting her visitor's look. "But you cannot remain here, my dear, for the parsonage will be handed over to another." "My father owns a small house in the village; I will move into it." "And how will you support yourself?" "I will work and earn money." "But your work will command only a mere pittance." "I shall be content with little." "And when your father is held in confinement in a strange city, shall you not wish to be near him? You may count on my aid; I will provide for your support." "I thank you, madam, but if I must be alone I can endure my loneliness better here than in a strange place; and if I am to be separated from my father, it is all one whether a wall three feet thick parts us, or a distance of thirty miles."