Then night fell and they lit a candle in the room previous to retiring for the night, she brought out her wallet, and, while they surrounded her with breathless curiosity, slowly took forth the various things she had bought for them: for each one, a holy picture; for the girls, a necklace (ah, how they, one after another, went peeping into the looking-glass, to see how theirs became them, drawing up their necks, like so many turkeys!); good strong knives for the lads; for Thomas, a large packet of tobacco, and for his good dame, a great frill, deeply scolloped and adorned with many-coloured embroidery, all so beautiful that the housewife herself clapped her hands to see it! All were extremely pleased, all feasted their eyes upon the gifts; while Agata, enjoying their pleasure, told them in detail how much each article had cost and where it had been bought. They sat up long, talking of the absent ones. “The village is so deadly still, it makes me feel a lump in the throat!” Agata said at last, when all had done talking, and there was a deep dull silence around her. “How different it was this time last year! The whole village shook with shouts and laughter.” “Yes, and now it looks like a vast grave,” Klembova chimed in mournfully; “only fit to be covered with a tombstone, and have a cross raised above.” “So ’tis.—Mistress, may I go and rest upstairs?” Agata asked meekly. “My bones ache with journeying, and my eyes begin to draw straws.” “Sleep wheresoever ye choose: there is no lack of room now!” But as she was going up the ladder to the loft, Klembova spoke to her through the open door: “Oh, I had all but forgotten to tell you.... We have taken your feather-bed out of your chest.... During the Carnival, Marcyha was down with the smallpox ... and it was very cold ... and we had nothing to keep her warm with.—So we borrowed it of you.... It has been aired by now, and shall be taken upstairs to-morrow.” “My feather-bed?—Well, ’twas your wish.... All right, since ye wanted it.” She broke off, unable to say more, and groped her way up to the chest. Raising the lid, she ran her hands feverishly over her funeral outfit. Yes, the feather-bed that she had left completely new had been taken! New, not even once used!... How she had picked up the stuffing, feather by feather, gleaning them upon the goose-pastures, to have her last bed ready for her! She burst out crying: the blow was too cruel. And she prayed for a long time, seasoning her prayers with bitter tears, and lovingly complaining to her dear Jesus of the wrong done to her. CHAPTER II The next day was Palm Sunday. Bright and early, Hanka rose, putting on only her petticoat, and throwing a shawl on her shoulders, for the cold. Round she looked everywhere, even to the boundaries of the enclosure and over on to the road. It was quite empty and void of life: only the dry light of dawn clad the leafless tree-tops along its line.