CHAPTER III. A CHILDISH MALEFACTOR. That house which stands all deserted in the middle of Hétfalu was not always of such a doleful appearance. Its windows which are now nailed up or bricked in were once full of flowers; those trees which now stand around it all dried up and withered as if in mourning for their masters, and with no wish to grow green again after the many horrors which have taken place among them, those trees, I say, once threw an opulent shade on the marble bench placed beneath them, where a grave old gentleman used to sit of an evening and rejoice in the splendid wallflowers with which the courtyard abounded. Yes, he could rejoice in the sweet flowers although his own heart was full of thorns. This old gentleman was Benjamin Hétfalusy. In front of those two windows which look out upon the garden, and which are now walled up, a solitary vine had been planted, whose branches, crowded with fruit, climbed up to the very roof of the house. Now it lies all wildered on the ground, and its immature berries twine themselves round the nearest bushes. Those windows were once thickly curtained. The yellow silk curtains inundated with a sickly light a room where everything was so still, so sad. There was an invalid in the house, little Neddy, the son of Benjamin Hétfalusy's daughter, the son of that once so haughty gentlewoman, Leonora Hétfalusy. This poor lady had been visited by many a terrible calamity. After a youth passed amidst feverish excitements, she had married Squire Széphalmi, and there had been two children of this marriage, a son and a daughter. Edward and Emma were their names. The children were constantly bickering with each other, but this after all is only what happens every day with brothers and sisters. One day the little girl disappeared, nobody knew what had become of her. They searched for her in the woods and in the fields, and in the pond close by; they explored the whole country side, their little pet daughter was nowhere to be found. From that very day Neddy fell sick. He lost his fresh ruddy colour. He could neither eat nor sleep. They laid him on his bed, a fever tormented him. At night he would wander in his speech, and at such times he would constantly be calling for his little sister Emma; he would cry out and weep, and his features would stiffen and his eyes would almost start out of his head till he looked like one possessed. The doctors said that it was epilepsy. They treated him in every possible way. It was all of no avail. He grew worse from day to day, and his father and mother stood and wept by his bed morning after morning. * * * * * It was one of those evenings when the wind rages outside and dashes rain mingled with hail against the window-panes. The child was crying and moaning in his bed, out of doors the dogs were howling, the wind was whistling, and the freely-swinging pump-handle creaked and groaned like a shrieking ghost.