Lipka therefore was rather melancholy and subdued that evening: only at Ploshka’s was there a numerous party. Her neighbours had come together and were conversing with dignified mien. The Voyt’s wife sat in the place of honour: by her side Balcerek’s wife, stout and loud-mouthed, was maintaining her opinion: close to her sat Sikora’s dame, raw-boned as heretofore; Boryna’s cousin, much given to babbling; and the blacksmith’s wife, her babe at her breast; and the Soltysova, talking in low devout tones: and, in short, all the foremost women in the village. As they sat there solemnly, stiff and formal of mien, one was somehow reminded of a lot of brooding hens with ruffled plumage. They wore their best holiday attire: kerchiefs let half-way down the back (Lipka-fashion), and great frills standing higher than their ears, with all their possessions in the way of coral beads hung over them. They enjoyed themselves, however, after their slow fashion, and their good humour increased little by little, as their cheeks grew flushed. And presently, tucking up their petticoats carefully, lest they should crumple them, they edged nearer and nearer to one another, and soon were engaged in more than one wordy tussle. But after the smith, who said he was but just back from town, had joined them, they waxed merrier still. The fellow was a rare talker; and being rather tipsy, he began to humbug them with such comical mystification that he made them hold their sides with laughter. The whole room was in a roar, and he himself laughed so loud that they could hear him at Boryna’s. The party lasted a long while, and Ploshka had to send three times to the tavern for vodka. At Boryna’s they sat in the court-yard. Hanka had risen and joined them, with a sheepskin coat over her shoulders to protect her from the chill night air. So long as there was light enough, Roch read to them; but when darkness had fallen over the land, he went on to tell them many a thing of wonder that they were most curious to hear. The dusk soon became so deep that the party were barely outlined on the white cabin-walls. It was cool outside, and no stars shone; a dull stillness, broken only by the bubbling waters and barking dogs, pervaded the place. They all were together in one group—Nastka and Yuzka, Veronka and her babes, Klembova and Pete, seated almost at Roch’s feet: Hanka was sitting on a stone, a little apart. He told them much about the history of Poland, and also many a holy legend, and tales of the wonderful things in the world, of which he related so many a marvel that no one could remember all he said. They listened motionless and hushed, drinking in those honey-sweet words of his, as the parched earth drinks in the warm raindrops. And he, barely seen in the gloom, spoke in a low solemn voice words such as these: “To all who await spring in prayer and toil and readiness, it surely cometh at the end of winter....