“And I shall lose you too, my poor beast!... They will come.... They are coming.... They will bargain for you ... and then throw a rope round your horns ... and lead you off, you that give us our food!” she murmured low, putting her arm round its neck, and turning with all the affection of her wounded heart towards this creature that felt for her.—No, this could go on no longer.—The cow was to be sold; then there would be nothing for them to eat!... And he refused to seek work! Had they not asked him to thresh? and he would not go. He might have earned one _zloty_ ten kopeks daily.... That would have at least bought salt, and a little lard to make up for the milk that was to fail them now. She returned to the dwelling-room, ready to speak her mind. “Antek!” she cried, in a hard, determined voice. Silently he raised his bloodshot eyes to hers, with a gaze of such immense anguish and sorrow that she was overwhelmed with dread, while her heart thrilled with compassion. “Did you say they had come for the cow?” “They are surely on the way; dogs are barking down there.” “No, that is in Sikora’s enclosure,” she said after having gone out to look. “They promised to come in the forenoon, and we have only to wait.” “Oh, _must_ we sell?” “Alas! we want money, and our pasture-land is not enough for Krasula and the heifer too.—Yes, we must, Hanka; what’s to be done? I am sorry to lose the cow,” he went on in a low voice, and with such sweetness of tone that Hanka felt spellbound, while her heart went pit-a-pat with great joy and hope: at that moment, she cared neither for the loss of the cow, nor any of their other misfortunes. And she gazed earnestly into his beloved face, listening to that voice of his which entered into her like a flame, and kindled such delightful feelings within her. “Ah, yes, we must. Well, the heifer remains to us. She will calve about Mid-Lent, and so we shall have a little milk then,” she chimed in, wishing only to hear him speak further. “And if we should lack provender, we’ll buy some.” “Oat-straw perhaps: our rye will last till spring.—Father, pray open our potato-pit: we must see if the potatoes we have are not frost-nipped.” “Father, stay where you are, the work is too hard for you: I’ll do it.” He rose, took his sheepskin down from the pole, and went outside.