Unable to find at once the words she wanted, and feeling ashamed, she gave a timid side-glance into the other room, where, opposite the door, and on a long table, stood a white pile of altar-breads, pressed down with a board. A couple of girls were making them into packets, each tied with a paper wrapper for distribution. From the unseen portion of the room came the monotonous tinklings of a harpsichord twangling under some unknown performer’s fingers—and suddenly breaking off with a jarring discord that gave Hanka gooseflesh and made the organist exclaim: “There, there—quite wrong: you’ve ‘eaten a fox!’—Repeat from ‘_Laudamus pueri_.’” “Are you making these for Christmas already?” she asked, feeling it would be discourteous to sit silent. “We are. The parish is big and straggling; and, as all the altar-breads have to be taken round before Christmas, we must begin betimes.” “Are they of pure wheat?” “Pray taste them.” She gave her one that was still hot from the mould. “I scarcely dare to eat of it.” She took it with a corner of her apron, holding it up to the light with awed and respectful scrutiny. “Why, what curious designs are stamped upon it!” “On that first circle, to the right, you see our Blessed Lady, St. John, and our Lord. On the other there is the manger, the rack, the cattle, the Child on its couch of hay, St. Joseph, and again our Lady; and here are the Three Wise Men, kneeling.” Such were the explanations of the organist’s wife. “Yes, yes; I see.—Oh, how wonderfully these designs are made!” She wrapped the altar-bread in a kerchief and put it in her bosom.—A peasant had entered and told the organist something; at which he cried: “Michael! They have come for a christening: take the key and go to the church. His Reverence knows and will come, but Ambrose must stay to serve the company.” The harpsichord became mute, and a tall pale lad passed out of the room. “My brother’s orphan boy. Practises to learn playing with my husband, who teaches him gratis. We must make a sacrifice, and do something for our own flesh and blood.” Little by little, Hanka became more communicative, and at last brought out the story of her sufferings and troubles, though piecemeal and with much hesitation. It was the first time she had been able to speak openly of all that had passed. They listened and talked to her with sympathy; and though they took good care not to mention Boryna’s name, they showed her so much sincere compassion that it made her weep very copiously. Now the organist’s wife, being a clever intelligent woman, understood what Hanka wanted, and came out the first with a proposal. “Listen: you may perhaps have a little spare time.—Would you spin some wool for me? I thought I would get it done by Pakulina, but ’tis better you should do it.” “May God reward you! I was indeed in want of work, but durst not ask for it.”