“Why,” Vitek put in, “his Reverence is drinking tea all day long.” “Would you run to him and borrow some?” “No need. I have some by me—if you would give me some water....” “I shall boil some at once.” She placed a pot on the fire, and returned to her spinning, but spun no more; while she seemed to be twirling the spindle, she was scanning him with great curiosity.—Who could he be? what did he want? Was he a man of the police, making out some list? the paper he was always consulting seemed to point to that.—His apparel, too, was not of her class: grey and green, like the hunting-dress of a manor-house footman.... But again, he was wearing a peasant’s sheepskin and cap!—He might possibly be an eccentric fellow, or perhaps a world-ranger. Thus she pondered, exchanging glances with Vitek, who, apparently gazing into the fire, scrutinized the stranger, and was much surprised to hear him try and make friends with Lapa. “Pray beware: that dog bites!” he could not help exclaiming. “Fear naught!” he said, and, with a singular smile, he patted the dog’s head, come to rest on his knees. Presently Yuzka came in and, soon after, Vavrek’s wife, and several other neighbours; for already the news had been spread abroad that a stranger had come to Boryna’s hut. But he continued warming himself, paying no attention to the people or their whispers and remarks. When the water in the pot boiled, he took some tea out of a piece of paper, poured the tea in, took a white mug down from the shelf, and drank the tea thus made, nibbling at a lump of sugar the while, and walking about the room, examining the pieces of furniture, or standing in the midst and eyeing the people with such sharp glances that they felt confused. “Who made these?” he asked, pointing to the wafer “globes” that dangled from the ceiling. “I did!” Yuzka sang out, turning very red. He resumed his walk, Lapa following him step by step. “And who did these paintings?” he inquired, stopping before a few of the cut-out figures that were on the picture-frames and the walls. “They are not painted, but cut out of paper.” “You don’t say so!” he exclaimed. “I do, for I cut them out myself.” “And did you invent them?” “Of course, but every child here can do as much.” He said nothing further, poured out some more tea, sat down by the fire again, and a pretty long silence ensued. The folk slunk away; night was coming on, and the storm had abated. At times an angry gust would still rush by, but at rarer intervals and with less fury, like a bird that a long flight has worn out. At length, Yagna put her distaff aside, and began to prepare supper. “Was one James Soha ever in your service?” “Is it Kuba you mean?—Aye, he was, but he died last autumn, poor man!” “Your parish priest has told me so.—Lord God! I have been seeking him for ever so long in all the villages around, and find him dead!”