“Nay, only wandering about: ye know, Eastertide does not end till to-morrow.”—Touching his book with her hand, “Religious, is it?” she asked him. “Not in the least. ’Tis of far-off lands and the seas that surround them.” “Heavens! of the seas? What, then are not the pictures ye have there images of the saints?” “See!” He opened the book before her, showing the illustrations. With heads bent down, touching almost, they stood there, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, inadvertent. Now and then he explained some picture; and she was enraptured, raising her eyes to admire him, not daring to breathe for emotion. Now they pressed closer still, for the sun was under the forest, and it was hard to make out the pictures. All of a sudden, a shudder went through him; he shrank back a little, murmuring: “Twilight has fallen; ’tis time to go home.” “Let us go, then.” So they went on in silence, and almost unseen in the shadows. Now the after-glow had faded, and dusk was trailing its bluish haze over all the fields. That day no gorgeous sunset blazed in the western sky, but through the tall poplars the daylight was seen to die away in a bright expanse of gold. “Is it true, what they print there?” Yagna inquired of him, stopping awhile. “’Tis true: every word true!” “Lord! such vast waters, such wonderful countries! ’tis hard to believe it.” “Nevertheless, ’tis the truth, Yagna,” he whispered, and looked kindly into her eyes, and so close that she held her breath, and a shiver passed through her frame. She bent forward with a gesture as of one who yields all, expecting him to embrace her, pressed to the hole of a tree hard by, and was opening her arms to him, when he suddenly started back, saying: “I must be off: it is late. Farewell, Yagna!” and vanished. Many minutes elapsed before Yagna could move from the spot. “What! has the boy cast a spell on me? What is this that I feel now?” she wondered, as she dragged along slowly, with her brain in a whirl, and strange tremors running all through her. Passing the tavern, she caught the muffled sounds of the music and conversations. She looked in at the window. Mr. Yacek, standing in the middle of the room, was sawing away at his violin. Ambrose, reeling close to the bar, was talking loud to the _Komorniki_ and from time to time reaching out his hand for a glass. Someone caught her by the waist unexpectedly: she screamed and tried to wrench herself loose. “I have you now, nor will I let you go.—Come for a drink with me!” It was the voice of the Voyt, who held her firm in his grasp; and they both went by a side-door into the tavern parlour. No one had seen them, for few were out in the road, and it was very dark. Now the village was quiet: all the outside sounds were hushed and the crofts were empty and silent. Everybody was at home. Eastertide, that dear time of rest, was nearly over; and the toilsome morrow was lurking outside on the threshold, already baring its sharp fangs for them.