He peered cautiously round, and putting some caramels into her bosom: “Take these, Yagna,” he said; “and come to the private bar this evening; you shall have something still better.” And without awaiting her reply he hurried back to the cabin. “Aha!” he cried; “ye have there a goodly bull-calf, I see: ’twill fetch a high price.” “No, we keep it for breeding: it comes of good Manor stock.” “And a splendid profit ye’ll have of it: the miller’s bull is good for nothing now. How pleased Antek will be to see the money flow in!” “Ah me! when will he see that? when?” “In no long time. It is I who tell you so: trust me.” “We all are waiting wearily from day to day!” “And any day they may be back—all of them; and I know something of these matters, I fancy.” “But the fields will not wait: that is the worst of it.” “And ah! when I look forward to autumn....” A cart rattled by. Yuzka peeped out and announced that it was the priest, along with Roch, bound for somewhere. “To purchase wine for the Mass,” Ambrose explained. “And why,” Yagustynka asked with a sneer, “has he rather chosen Roch to try it with him than Dominikova?” The latter had no time to retort: just then, in came the smith, and the Voyt raised his glass. “Michael, you are late; come and make up for lost time!” “I shall soon catch you up: here they come to take you from us!” Even as he spoke, the Soltys rushed in breathless. “Away, Peter; the scrivener and the gendarmes need you.” “Mother of a dog! what, not an instant of rest?... Well, duty first!” “Get rid of them quick and rejoin us.” “Can it be done? There’s the Podlesie fire business, and they come, too, about the hole dug here.” He went out with the Soltys. Then Hanka, fixing her eyes on the smith: “They will come,” she said, “to take informations. Tell them _all_, Michael.” He scratched his moustache, and eyed the child with much apparent attention. “What can I say? Just as much as Yuzka could.” “I shall not send the girl to an official: ’twould be unseemly. But say to them, you, that, so far as we can tell, naught has been stolen from the store-room. Whether this be so or not, no one knows but God ... and....”—She broke off, stroking the feather-bed with a nervous cough, disguising the mockery she felt visible on her face. He replied only with a shrug, and went out. “Oh, the dishonest knave!” she said to herself, smiling softly. “Because the christening was a poor one, they have broken it up quite,” Ambrose grumbled, taking up his cap to go. “Yuzka, cut a piece of sausage: he can celebrate the christening at home.” “Am I a man to eat dry sausage?” “Then moisten your inwards with vodka now, and stop grumbling.” “They were wise who said: ‘Count the grains of barley put in the pot, but look not at your fingers when they work, nor count the glasses drunk at any festival’!”