Yagna looked round, really unaware that the words were meant for her. When they had disappeared, she wandered about the lanes for a long time, and when all the lights were out, she went and sat outside her cabin till it was again broad day. The hours passed by; the villagers one by one rose and went to their daily duties; and she still sat plunged in day-dreams of her Yanek; of his speech with her, of their mutual glances—and so near together! of their having gone somewhere and sung something ... something she could not remember.... And always, always the same dream, endlessly repeated! Her mother woke her to reality; but Hanka did the waking yet more effectually. She came, dressed for her journey, and timidly stretched out her hand to make peace with them. “I am going to Chenstohova. Pray forgive me if I have sinned in aught against you.” “Your words are kind, and I thank you,” the old dame growled; “but what ye have done, ye have done.” “Let us not go into that!—I entreat you most sincerely to pardon me.” “I bear you no malice in my heart,” Dominikova returned, sighing heavily. “Nor do I, though I have suffered not a little,” Yagna said gravely; and then, as the Mass-bell was ringing, went to dress for church. “Do you know,” Hanka said, after a pause, “that Yanek, our organist’s son, is coming with us to Chenstohova? His mother told me herself that he has insisted on making the pilgrimage.” Hearing these words, Yagna rushed out half dressed. “In the company of our little priest, we shall journey better and more respectably.... And so, farewell!” They parted on friendly terms, and she went on to church, telling her news as she went. Everybody was surprised, and old Yagustynka shook her head, saying: “There’s more in this than meets the eye! If he goes, it is not willingly. Not he!” But there was no discussing the matter now: half the village was in church, and the Pilgrimage Mass had already begun. Yanek was serving, as usual; but his face looked paler, and bore an unusual expression of pain. Then his eyes were discoloured, and still brimmed with tears, through which he saw, as through a mist, the church, and Teresa lying on the pavement all the time with outstretched arms, and Yagna’s terrified glances, and his mother, sitting in the Manor pew, and the pilgrims coming up to receive Holy Communion: all these were dimly seen through his tears, while pang after pang rent his heart, overwhelmed with mortal anguish. From the altar, the priest took leave of the pilgrims, and, as they pushed their way out of the church, sprinkled them with holy water, and gave them his blessing. The banner was raised, the glittering cross opened the way before them, a hymn was struck up—and they set off upon their journey.