And Yagna would then smile a quiet humble smile of expectant happiness, but said nothing. And one day, quite unawares, she came upon Yanek, sitting by the mound that was the village landmark, book in hand. She could not take to flight, so stood there stock-still, confused and blushing deeply. “Why, what are you doing here?” he said. She stammered something, fearing lest he had guessed how matters stood with her. “Sit down; I can see you are hot and tired.” As she hesitated whether to comply, he took her by the hand and seated her by his side; she, with a quick motion, hiding her bare feet under her skirt. Nor was Yanek at his ease; he seemed embarrassed and troubled, and looked about him in perplexity. No one was near. The roofs and orchards of Lipka rose like far-away islands out of a sea of corn, which rolled its waves in the breeze; there was a warm scent of wild thyme mingled with that of the rye. A bird was sailing high above their heads. To break the awkward silence, he said: “It is terribly hot.” “And it was pretty hot too yesterday,” she replied, in a voice so husky with joy and fear that she could hardly get the words out. “Reaping will begin soon.” “Aye, it will,” she assented, her eyes glued to his face. He smiled and, attempting a free and easy tone, said to her: “Why, Yagna, you are growing prettier every day!” “I pretty? No, indeed!” she faltered, turning very red, while her dark-blue eyes shot flames, and a smile of secret delight trembled on her lips. “But tell me true, Yagna, do ye not mean to marry again?” “Never! Am I not happy, single as I am?” “And is there no one for whom ye care at all?” he asked, growing bolder. “No one, no one!” She shook her head, fixing full upon him her dreamy eyes that told of blissful thoughts. He bent forward, and looked into their azure depths. In her glance there could be read a prayer, full of sweet and most profound trust—like the fervent outcry of an adoring heart at the most sacred instant of the Mass. And her soul stirred within her, as a sunbeam passing over the fields, as a bird winging its way, singing far above the earth. On a sudden he shrank back, strangely perturbed, rubbed his eyes, and rose to his feet. “I must be going home.” He nodded farewell to her, and set off towards the village through the fields, opening his book to read as he went. His eyes happening to wander off it, he looked round, and stopped short. Yagna was following, only a few paces behind him! “This,” she said, timidly excusing herself, “is the shortest way home for me too.” “Then let us walk abreast,” he answered, gruffly, not much pleased at having her company; and on he went, reading the book to himself half aloud. “What does it tell of?” she inquired, with a glance at the open pages. “I’ll read you some, if you wish.”