SEVEN days passed. How short! but sometimes how long seven days may be! How much one can live through, experience, and suffer! Time passes; you awaken, wipe your eyes, and wonder if it is true that it has passed already.
Even thus Ondrejko de Gemer, wandering through the woods, wondered if all was true that had passed in the last seven days, or if it was merely a dream. Oh, it was no dream, really. She came, the sick lady. Truly, she lived in Palko's cottage and though Ondrejko had carried the whey there already three times he had not seen her. Aunty always said that she was asleep, and must sleep very much. Ah, why did she always sleep just when he came? She had spoken already to Petrik, and gave him a box full of candy. Palko had already read to her from his Book, and had told her that she was almost as beautiful as his mother at home; Ondrejko, alone, had not seen her yet.
How much he had prayed already, especially that morning, that she might not be asleep again when he went there, that he also might welcome her to those woods and mountains. Formerly Ondrejko didn't think of it, but he did now, when the herdsmen, especially Stephen, again and again reminded him that these sheepfolds were his father's, and therefore his also, and that he had a rightful claim to everything. When they gave him cheese and butter for the lady, they gave him plenty, saying, "Just take it; it is yours." This thought seemed to appeal to him—all is ours. If Palko could say "our cottage," why could not Ondrejko say, "our sheepfolds, our land, and our woods? Oh, then she came to us though she lived in the cottage of Palko. When she gets stronger she will come to us to drink whey from our sheep."
Lost in his meditation, the boy did not realize that he had come to the parting of the paths, one of which turned above to the "Old Hag's Rock," and the other, below to the cottage in the valley. The weather was again so clear that from the green clearings in the woods you could hear the great bells of the rams and the little ones of the sheep.
"There is the ringing of the bells of our sheep," smiled the happy Ondrejko. He ran quickly to the bench, intending to sit upon it and rest, but he did not do so for it was occupied by someone like one od the fairies from the woods of which Stephen often told him, that on St. John's Night came out of the "Old Hag's Rock" and danced on the meadows. None of them could be more beautiful than the lady sitting on the bench, with its firm back covered with a flowery blanket; a similar cushion lay on the arm-rest, and on the cushion rested a white arm. On the small narrow palm a forehead was resting, and beautiful dark-gray eyes looked far away above the mountains.
The boy set down the crock and folded his arms. Thus he looked at the lily-white face, and the lips which seemed as if the Lord God had made just for song. And again his heart felt as if someone carried him far, far away, into the land of remembrances. It is too bad that the lady, covered with a light yellow Cashmere shawl does not look at the boy. Is he not also good-looking? and how beautiful! On Saturday the doctor sent him a new suit, almost the same kind as Palko had, but the shirt was embroidered with flowers, with broad sleeves, narrow pants, decorated sandals, a round hat with bands, and a small embroidered bag. Petrik also received a new suit, the kind that he used to wear. Ondrejko was very glad that now he would be altogether like his comrades. When they were all three in the church yesterday, the people looked around at them.
If the lady would only look this way! Surely she never saw such a beautiful little Slovak! But she did not look. At last, the boy came to himself. Oh, surely, it must be she!—surely, herself! Who else would be sitting on his bench? And she had that beautiful cat beside her. Here she was, already up, and he was just bringing her breakfast. He was late! Oh, he knew it was necessary for the whey to be warm. When, then, will she eat her breakfast?
He took courage and greeted her. The lady aroused herself, opened her big eyes, and in surprise looked at the boy timidly drawing near.
"Good morning," greeted Ondrejko. "I am bringing you the whey, but surely too late. However, I have hurried quite a bit, therefore please do not be angry at me."
"Do you bring me my breakfast?" the lady asked astonished. She arose and took the heavy crock out the hand of the boy. "It must be very heavy for you."
"It was not," said Ondrejko, more at ease, as he fastened his beautiful eyes on the lady's face. Oh, how happy he was that finally he too could see her, and that she talked with him and even took him by the hand.
"And what is your name?"
"Ondrejko," he replied.
"And do you live here at these sheepfolds?" "Yes," said he, "I live with Bacha Filina. I like it very much."
The lady walked with the boy and he carried the crock. She was small in stature, but every movement reminded one of a princess.
"Why did not Petrik or Palko bring this whey?" she asked, to start a conversation with Ondrejko. "We change about," said he.
"Change about? But I have never seen you before."
"I have carried the whey already three times, but you have always been asleep," said Ondrejko.
"So, I have always been asleep during your visits? Therefore I will not leave you quickly today. You must rest with us. Look, Aunty is already waiting." The lady stopped and almost joyfully handed the crock to Aunty Moravec.
"Look who brought the whey for us today, but you are already acquainted. We have seen each other for the first time now! Please prepare a good breakfast for my guest." The hands of Aunty shook somewhat when she received the crock, and she hastened to heat the whey at once.
Who could have told Ondrejko how the Lord Jesus would answer his prayer? Petrik saw the lady only in the kitchen, but she took him into her room. How beautifully she had things arranged there! A plush sofa and arm-chair, and many such things as they had in the castle de Gemer were in the room. He was permitted to sit with her on the sofa and look over a large book with photographs, all of beautiful lands and cities. She pointed them out and named them.
"And you have been in all these places?" he dared to ask.
A sad expression clouded her face. "Yes, I have, Ondrejko, but now I have only one wish—to remain forever in these mountains and never again have to look at that evil, deceitful world outside."
After a while Aunty brought breakfast. Ondrejko had to sit down at the beautifully-covered table. He was used to praying before eating in the hut, so he did it now also, and in the joy which overflowed his heart, he added, "I thank Thee, dear Lord Jesus, that You have so kindly answered me."
The lady had already lifted the cup to her lips, but she set it down again, and as if ashamed, bowed her head too. A tear appeared on her golden eyelashes. When the boy had finished eating, she asked him what he had asked Jesus Christ for. He confessed how much he had desired to see her, and that he almost envied his comrades. Then he asked permission to look also into the other book which lay on a small table. It was full of photographs of people. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, because about .ten of them were pictures of herself, but she was dressed in all kinds of strange costumes. In one of the pictures she had on a loose dress like a cloak and a crown on her head. Under the picture was printed, "Mary Slavkovsky as Marie Stuart." The boy rested his curly head on his small palms, and thought.
"Why do you look so much at that picture?" said the lady, stroking his golden curls.
"Is this really you in all these pictures? Have you perhaps played in a theatre?" said Ondrejko.
She was astonished. "What do you know about theatres? Have you perhaps been in one of them?"
"No," he shook his head. "That could not be possible. I have not been." The boy's face saddened.
"What do you mean, Ondrejko?" said the lady, drawing him nearer to her.
"Oh, my mother also is pictured in photographs, but I shall never see her again."
"Your mother?" said she, wonderingly. "Is she not a country woman?"
"Oh, no!" The eyes of the boy glowed. "She is a famous singer, but I shall not see her again, because she has forgotten me long ago—and so I have nobody to look after me, no mother, no father, although I was adjudged to him. I used to be very sad about it, but since Palko came to us, and I believed in the Lord Jesus Christ, and received Him in my heart, I am no more just, a forsaken orphan, because He loves me, and He iS with me." The boy stopped because the lady became very pale, and the arm with which she had caressed him, fell down and a deep sigh escaped her lips.
"Aunty!" cried the scared boy, and not in vain. Aunty Moravec ran into the room. She washed the deathly-pale face of the lady with some kind of fine-smelling water. She placed a cushion under her head and put her feet on the sofa. After a while, the lady began to breathe better again. Aunty took the boy by the hand and led him to the kitchen. At his anxious questioning she told him only that the lady was still very weak and must rest. Ondrejko repeated to her what they had been speaking about together. At hearing this, Aunty sighed and caressed him, and said, "It is all in vain. It had to come and the sooner the better." She did not hinder Ondrejko from going home, but did not allow him to carry the crock.
"Send Palko, in the afternoon. He promised to take the lady to you. From tomorrow on, she is to come to your sheepfold to drink the whey. The doctor ordered that."
"But is she not sick?" the boy said, showing some anxiety.
"She is not sick any more, only weak, and this weakness she must overcome by walking," responded Aunty.
In this world there is no sweetness without bitterness. If something strange had not happened, that boy would have returned home very proud and happy. Thus Bacha Filina found him not far away, all in tears, and when he took him into his strong arms like a little lamb, the boy threw both arms around his neck and told him everything.
"Bacha, I have surely said something bad, though I really don't know what, and she became very sad about it," cried Ondrejko.
"Do not cry," the man comforted him. "You said only what the Lord God put in your mouth. Anyway, when the lady comes in the afternoon, all will be well again."
With these words, the Bacha carried the tired boy to his wooden hut, laid him on the bed, and sat beside him. He stroked his arm and forehead, and before long he had put his little charge to sleep. Then he looked at him once more, sadly, and left. About half-an-hour later the herdsmen found him dressed in his Sunday suit going in the direction of the "Old Hag's Rock." They thought he was going to town, and wondered why, because he had been there only yesterday.
At the same time, bitter crying sounded in Palko's cottage, which Aunty Moravec could in no way silence. There the weeping lady said, "He was here; he, my beautiful golden-headed child, and I did not know him. The heavy crock he brought to me himself. He wanted to see me, but did not recognize me. How could he, when I myself did not know him? That his own mother forgot him long ago is not true. All the glory of the world could not replace my lost treasure. Oh, my father, my father! If you only knew what became of your daughter! You taught her to fold her hands in prayer, but she forgot everything—even that. Unfortunate, betrayed wife, craven mother! If you only knew how your warnings have been literally fulfilled!"
The lady cried bitterly. There was no comfort for her. Usually there is none for the son or daughter who has trampled the good advice of his parents under his feet and after that has had to suffer everything which has been foretold them.
Finally Aunty went out. She heard steps in the hall. After a while she returned asking if Bacha Filina might enter, that he would like to speak of something important with the lady.
In a moment Bacha was in the room. "I have come, Madame Slavkovsky, to talk with you," he began seriously. "It is time to make an end to the sin, which for years you have already committed as to my little charge. The doctor told me that you are his mother, and my lord is his father. Now is this tender, sensitive child to grow up as somebody said: 'Whether father or mother, whether sister or brother, nobody comes to welcome me'?" The man spoke seriously.
The lady stretched out her hands towards him imploringly. "What can I do? They took him away from me and adjudged him to De Gemer. My lawyer did everything that he could, but in vain."
"But would you love him, would you like to take care of him as it behooves a decent mother, if my lord would return him to you?"
"Why would I not! I deserve that you ask me that. Whether you believe me or not, Bacha Filina, I would give everything if I could only get him back again. I see he loves me, unworthy though I am."
"Yes, he loves you as only forsaken children know how to do. Therefore I came to you, lady—today or never God gives you an opportunity to get your treasure back again. Your former husband fell deeply into debt. His administrator received the order to sell the estate of the De Gemer family. If you have enough money—the doctor told me that you have—buy it out of the first hands before the Jews get hold of it. When your lawyer writes him that you will have the estate turned over to the boy, if Lord de Gemer will give it to you in black and white, he will be glad to do so, I know, and will give you the boy. He always boasted that the 'De Gemer' estate shall belong to Ondrejko, his first-born. Everybody in the neighborhood knows about it. It would not be such a great shame on the family,
that they had to sell the family castle, if, after all, the property remained in his son's hands. It is a beautiful estate, and it is wisely managed. It will bring a much larger income later on, than it does today. Even if you had to borrow some money to purchase it, it would be worthwhile to do so."
"Oh, Bacha Filina!" The lady took the man's hard right hand into her small ones. "How can I thank you enough for this good and beautiful advice? I don't know if my ready money will suffice, but I have beautiful jewelry, and when I sell that, we will have something to start with at least. I am not altogether so unfamiliar with managing as you may think; I am the daughter of a farmer. But who will buy this for me? My lawyer is not here."
"Leave Ondrejko with the doctor. Ride to the administrator's office and buy the estate yourself. He has orders to sell it. Do not begin to deal about the boy before the estate is yours. At least, that is what I think. But today let Ondrejko know that you are his mother, that the boy may not suffer longer. Come to us in the afternoon. I will send Palko for you."
Filina arose. "I would not have come to you while you are still weak, but we must hurry with the buying, and Ondrejko cared so much that he shook all over, thinking that surely he had said something bad to you so that you fainted. The boy is very tender. He needs not only strengthening with me—that is only for the body—but his heart needs a mother. The God in the heavens has become his Father. Good-bye, then."
"Bacha Filina," the lady stopped the man. "Do you know why I parted with De Gemer? Or do you think that because I am a singer, I have left him like an unfaithful wife?"
"The doctor told me that my lord had wronged you. I do not ask more. Everyone of us has enough of his own sins. God sees us and knows us. Do not judge that ye be not judged." The deep voice of Filina sounded almost gentle. He shook her hand and left.
- - -
"Uncle Filina! Did you already return from the city?" sounded a voice from the clearing where he went to look at the flock. Palko ran to meet him. In his hand he carried a basket full of beautiful mushrooms.
"I was not in the city, Palko; but what are you doing here?" Filina was cheered with Palko's presence and sat down on an old log overgrown with moss. The boy joyfully threw himself down on the deep mossy cushions.
"I carried a letter to Stephen which the forester's boy brought for him from his mother. It cheered him very much. She had been sick, but now she writes to him herself. Praise the Lord!"
"I am very glad of that; she is a good woman. And the son which has no mother has no home anywhere," said Filina. "Where did you find these mushrooms?"
"They are beautiful, aren't they? Oh, I just happened to see them. Joe said he would cook the stew for supper. They will fit in well."
"Yes, they will. Pick out the best ones, and take them to the ladies this afternoon, in your cabin. Perhaps they will like them."
"Shall I really go for the lady? Will it not be too far for her yet?" thoughtfully asked the boy.
"I think not, but you must go slowly."
"But she is still so weak, Uncle."
"I know it; I have just left her."
"Is that so? You saw her? And you just came from there? Did you stop there on the way from town?"
Bacha was silent for a moment as if deciding something. Then he fastened his eagle eyes on the boy's face. "Palko, I am going to tell you something. God grant that you may help me in a very difficult thing."
"I would love to, Uncle. Just tell me."
"The master of these sheepfolds is Ondrejko's father. You know that; do you not?"
"Yes, I know it."
"And the beautiful lady there, is his mother."
"What did you say!" Palko jumped up at once and sat down again. "But how is it that they are not together, and that Ordrejko is not with them?"
"They had parted, and he took another wife many years ago."
"And the Lord Jesus permitted that? It seems to me that He said, 'It should not be so.' "
"You know, Palko, the world does many things that the Lord God forbids—even this. I know it is a sin, but it is already that way and it cannot be changed now. The lady, before De Gemer took her, was a famous singer in America. She must have been very beautiful because she is still so today. He brought her to Europe to his family. They were displeased with him because the lady was not of noble birth. They did not treat her well, and he did not stand by her as would have been his duty. Because as far as I know him, he is not the man to guard his wife against the whole world. It may also be that he has been sorry already, that he had shut himself out of the world because of her, while on the other hand, many noble ladies were offered him. How it was among themselves, I do not know. I only know that once, when he was not at home, she took the boy and fled away. Then they lived in Budapest. She did not know how to make a living any other way — so she gave the boy into the care of strange people, and went again to the theatre. Then came the law suit. He charged her with leaving him, and she did not want to return to him, so the court separated them. They adjudged the boy to his father, and so he came to us. While Ondrejko was with those people, where she cared for him, they told him all good things about her, but when he came to where his father put him you can imagine that they did not speak well of her. So the poor boy has heard all kinds of stories about his mother, and yet he longs for her, and so I visited the lady today. I wanted to advise her how she could take the boy herself and acknowledge him today. Therefore I tell you, Palko, everything, that you may tell Ondrejko who it is that is coming to us today."
There was silence in the mountains. Bacha looked at the boy deep in thought. "Will you tell him, Palko?"
"Yes, Uncle. But I must first ask the Lord Jesus for help, for that is not a small thing. It is good that Ondrejko is already God's lamb. He will even help his mother to find the Lord Jesus Christ. Yes, we will do that part. But, Uncle Filina, when will you tell me that you have received Him?—that you are His?" The question from the boy, put with so much loving concern, brought the tears into the man's eyes.
"I do not know myself, what to tell you, my boy. It is all so strange to me. From the time that I took the Lord Jesus, like Zacchaeus, it seems to me there is no more of that great burden that always oppressed me. Sometimes it seems to me as if the Son of God was actually with me, and when I read the Bible it seems as though He is living in my heart and opens my eyes. Now I don't know, my boy, what more can I do."
"Oh, Uncle," Palko began to jump for joy. "Really, you have already accepted Him. He came and took away your load, and threw it behind God's back."
"What do you say, boy?" said the surprised man. "Is that all?"
"Yes, that is all. We are only to believe Him. You know well how He said, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Don't you believe He means what He says?"
"I do believe, my boy, and already believe, and even understand all like Zaccheus. He came to seek and to save that which was lost. He came to seek even me, the lost sinner, and I let Him find me."
When the next moment they kneeled before God, the man and the boy, there was great joy in heaven that again a sinner had received the Lord Jesus Christ. Because to those who receive Him, to them gave He power to be the sons of God. Thus the Lord wrote His name in the Lamb's book of Life. They wrote that Peter Filina believed, and that Jesus of Nazareth took his heavy burden of sin upon His cross, there suffered for him the penalty of death, and thus it was that Filina was forgiven all, and received the Son of God for ever and ever. So for the first time Filina prayed with his whole heart to God as his Father. He thanked the Lamb of God for His death, and thanked Him also for Palko whom He had sent to those mountains.
When they were done, the boy sighed deeply. Said he, "Since I am finished with you, I don't have to ask the Lord Jesus any more for you, but can ask so much better for Ondrejko's mother.
Surely He will grant to me that she will soon accept Him too."
They went together a little way, but Bacha turned to the clearings and Palko ran back again to the but at the sheepfold. On the way, he sang until the echo rang everywhere.
There was much stirring in the but that afternoon. The boys cleaned and arranged everything so that no particle of dust could be found anywhere. They brought flowers to Ondrejko that he might braid a chain of them. It was a very long one. Bacha himself afterwards draped it over the door.
"Well, it is time for me to go," announced Palko. "Ondrejko, come with me part of the way. I saw some nice flowers not far away and you can pick them. These we will place on the table afterwards."
"Verily it is time that you go," agreed Bacha, "and go together."
Ondrejko obeyed very gladly. Merrily the boys went into the woods and soon found the flowers they wanted.
"Let us sit down a while," said Palko when they had picked the flowers and placed them in the nearby spring. "I would like to tell you something. Do you remember anything about your mother?"
"About my mother?" said the surprised Ondrejko. That kind of question he did not expect. "I remember but a little, that she was very beautiful, and had a very fine voice."
"And if she suddenly came for you, would you be glad?"
"For me?" and the boy's beautiful eyes opened wide. "She cannot come for me any more, because I do not belong to her, but to father."
"And what did the lady where you lived formerly tell you about her?"
"That she left father and me because she loved the theatre more than us, and because sometimes the people hitched themselves to wagons instead of horses, and gave her beautiful jewels."
"And you believed it?" retorted Palko, with clouded face.
"No, I did not believe it, because I loved her, loved her very much."
"You are right; don't you believe it. Bacha Filina told me that she went away because your father's family did not like her because she was not of noble birth as themselves. But she went to the theatre only because she could not make her living otherwise. Your father brought her from a very great distance to which she could not return. What could she do? What the theatre is, I do not know. Only that she sang there beautifully. Perhaps that would not have been so bad if she had known the Lord Jesus as we know Him. He would surely have advised and helped her otherwise, and if that which she did was wrong, when she once knows Jesus and asks Him to forgive her, He will do so. But we must tell her about Him, you and I."
"We? But she is far away, very far."
"Do not believe it, Ondrejko. The Lord Jesus sent her back as far as here. The lady at our cottage—that is she."
"You say that is she?" Ondrejko jumped up. "Yes, yes; that is she."
"She was just like her, and had the same kind of a voice! And so it aroused in my heart remembrances of long ago when she spoke and when I looked at her. It seems to me I recognized her, but she didn't know me," sadly sighed the boy, and his eyes filled with tears.
"But how could she have recognized you in those farmer's clothes? We too, Petrik and I, hardly recognized you."
"Do you think so?" Ondrejko calmed down. "Palko, take me to her; she doesn't know that I am her Andreas. She doesn't know me."
"She knows already. Uncle Filina was there. He told her the truth."
"Oh, then take me with you, because I have made her very sad—till she almost died."
"I don't care. Come, then. Surely the Lord Jesus wants it so."
- - -
No matter how long Ondrejko Gemersky lives he will never be able to forget how it was when the doors in the cottage opened and a beautiful lady in a light blue dress, the color of forget-me-nots, stepped out. In her hands she carried a broad hat, but she dropped it with a cry, "My Ondrejko!" as she ran toward them. He flew like an arrow to meet her.
"Mother, my mother!"—and already held her around the neck. She, kneeling, hugged him to her breast. They both cried, and Palko with them.
"Oh, mother, my mother, how I love you! Verily. I am yours, and surely you will keep me now," begged Ondrejko with tears. He stroked the beautiful face and forehead of the lady.
"Yes, you are mine." She jumped up. "I will not give you up any more to anyone, anyone in the world. But no, come, my son, we have to go to Bacha Filina. He will take care of it, that no one can take you away from me."
Surely Ondrejko will never forget this, nor how they walked together to the sheepcote, how well they were received there, what a good time they had that afternoon and evening, because Ondrejko's mother slept together with Aunty Moravec in his hut. Bacha counted on that. He took counsel with Aunty and sent Stephen, to the cottage to bring whatever was necessary for the lady, especially sheets, covers, etc. Thus Ondrejko sat beside his mother in the evening when Joe roasted the lamb over the fire, and Petrik helped Aunty to cook soup in the pot.
Bacha told them about the life at the sheepcotes, and many interesting things from his experiences with the flocks. Then they had supper together, there in the open. Then they sang the evening song, prayed, and Palko read from his Book. At Filina's request he read the 15th chapter of the Gospel of Luke, about a good shepherd, about a woman who lost her coin, and about a prodigal son who had a good father, but nevertheless ran away from him, and how badly he fared in the world until he returned to his father. During the reading Palko made many beautiful remarks, as he usually did. They all loved to hear him. When he closed, only the fire crackled, and the stars in the heavens were sparkling like a multitude of eyes. The moon lit up the tops of the mountains and woods. Often one of the sheep rang its bell in the fold.
Bacha suddenly lifted up his bowed head, and spoke with a voice such as they had never heard before: "That lost and found sheep am I, my children. The gracious Lord God forgave all my sins. The Lord Jesus sought and found me, and I have surrendered myself to Him altogether, including our huts. Let us pray."
He took his hat off, folded his hands, and prayed thus, "Our Father," in such a manner, that nobody had ever heard such a prayer before. Never will Ondrejko de Gemer forget that moment, but I think that none of the others present there will ever be able to forget it either.
When in the huts everything quieted down—not even the dogs barked that night—Bacha, as his custom was, walked all around to see if there was any danger anywhere, before he betook himself to rest. He walked also around the wooden but and suddenly stopped. There on Ondrejko's little bench, under the window, wrapped up in a shawl, Madame Slavkovsky sat in the moonlight.
Her hands were twined around her knees, and she was thoughtfully looking into the beautiful starry night. He coughed, that she might not be startled. She turned her head, and with a motion indicated her wish that he should take a place beside her. He obeyed.
"You said, Bacha Filina, that that lost and found sheep was you," she began in her sweet, sad voice. "That woman who lost that coin is also I. More than that even, I am the prodigal daughter."
"What do you mean by that, lady?" asked Filina seriously.
"When Palko explained how good that father was and how the naughty boy left him, I thought that I did just that to my good dear father; and therefore, from that time on, what sad experiences I have had!" She sighed deeply.
"Tell me all about it. I am an old man and could be your father. I shall understand you."
"Yes, I will tell you everything, because if you had not saved my poor child he would not have had anybody. Did you not care for him like a father?"
"We lived on a beautiful farm in America," she went on. "My grandfather and grandmother came from Bohemia as a young couple. They bought a small farm and worked diligently, and God blessed them. They were good people, who trusted in God. They had one son and a daughter. Their son wanted to study, so they sent him to school. As he did not work on the farm they had to take a helper, and he also came from the old country. They took a liking for him at once because he fitted in so well in the family. Once when grandfather was so seriously ill that he thought he would die, he called his helper and asked him, since he was single and without relatives in the land, if he would marry his daughter. He would be more easy if he knew in whose hands he had left his daughter and wife. That the daughter liked the good-looking and goodhearted young man, they knew well. But the young man asked for some time to think it over, and then told their daughter his history from the old country. What it all was I don't know, and when she, in spite of it all, was willing to take him, he acceded to my grandfather's wish, and none of them were ever sorry for it. My father was very kind to my mother. She had no reason to be sorry that she had married him. Grandfather recovered from his illness. For many years after that he worked together with his son-in-law and everything went well, so that with his help the small farm became a large one. My recollections are only of the big farm. I was their only child. My uncle Vojta was at that time a professor in New York, was married, and advised my parents to send me to him there, that I might go to school and become a lady. Grandfather approved of this; thus I was at home only in the summer, and over the winter at Uncle's in school till I was really trained. My Uncle noticed that I had a talent for singing, and the teachers confirmed it. Without the knowledge of my home folks he sent me to learn to sing. I loved to sing, but loved still more the praise showered upon me by the audiences at the school-concerts.
"In the meantime, so great a change transpired in my home that I hardly recognized it when they called me to grandfather's deathbed. Our farm was not far from the mountains. In those mountains was a mission conference for several weeks. Our whole family used to go to listen to those speakers who held religious lectures there —and all of them, as it was well-known about there, turned to Christ. I shall never forget how happy grandfather died, how he blessed us all, and with what fortitude grandmother bore her loss. For the first time I was really glad to be able to run away from my dear parents to my Uncle's. My beloved ones started a family altar at home. They sang songs to the honor of the Lamb who, they claimed, had delivered them from their sins. Well, I did not like to sing those songs. It seemed to me as if even the walls of our house would fall down on me.
"My splendid, kind father let me go sadly. I had half-a-year more school to complete, and one more examination. My dear parents rejoiced that then I would be wholly their's, because they had only me, and for me they worked and saved. My Uncle agreed with me in everything. Like me, he did not want to enter the narrow path which leads to glory. With the conclusion of the school-year, my study of singing also ended, and I returned home with the intention of persuading my parents to permit me to enter the opera—that means, to become a singer. More than half a year I fought at home with pleas and tears, but in vain. My father was wonderfully patient and kind to me. Mother and grandmother were often not so patient, but, like these grand mountains, they would not move, nor could anyone move my father to break his word that he would never give me permission to go. Well, what he did not give me, I took myself."
"What did you do?" compassionately asked Bacha. The lady broke out crying.
"I left home, leaving a letter behind saying that I loved the world, in which and for which, I wanted to live, and I loved the glory of the world and did not want to bury myself on the farm. I ran away to my Uncle's. My dear father came at once for me. He begged and pled, but I didn't want to go back with him, and did not do so.
" 'When you find out that the world is as vain as soap-bubbles, and your heart is full of disillusionment, ready to despair, then remember that you have a father and a home to return to,' said father. 'Until that time you cannot count yourself one of us. We are standing on two different paths: the one we go on is narrow and leads high; the other, which you have chosen, id broad and will lead you from the heights to a deep abyss. Our prayers will surround you always like a fiery wall. I know that you will have to suffer much evil and much sorrow, but our prayers will prevent you from sinning as grievously as you will see others do around you.'
"Those were his last words. Oh, Bacha Filina, I went over that broad path. In a short time I was a famous singer. The people carried me on their arms. Though I was a simple farmer's daughter, because of the courses of the good schools which I had attended, the doors of high society opened to me, and I, like the prodigal, very soon forgot my parents, and especially my good father. Then Lord Gemer came into my life, and I married him, being ready to leave everything for him, even my fame. He promised me that even when I was his wife, he would agree to my keeping on with my singing. He kept that promise while we were in America and Italy. But in his native country it was impossible.
"And then everything began to turn out just as my dear father foretold. But I don't want to talk about that. I just wanted to say that I am that prodigal son."
"That you are, my lady, but only half-way; because the son returned, and you haven't returned yet."
"No, you are right. I haven't returned yet. When I had forsaken the man who betrayed me, I was ashamed, for I was forsaken, betrayed, and robbed of all means to return home. When I asked my uncle to help me, though he sent me some money, he also sharply admonished me either to return to my husband or to go back to my parents and do penance, but this I did not want to do. It seemed to me that all sinned against me, and I only was innocent. I had to live. And so I began to sing again, though with a broken heart. In a short time I had the world again lying at my feet, but, being so forsaken, I soon recognized its whole rottenness. How right my father was; I could not sin as I saw others around me doing. Therefore I had to suffer much till I could go on no longer. Since my health broke down, I cancelled my contract and betook myself to search for my son. I wanted to see him, at least once more, before I died. That is all."
"That is not everything," said Filina kindly with a smile as he rose. "The end will be only when the daughter returns, first to her heavenly, and then also to her earthly father. He that received me, will surely receive you too. But now come and go to rest, and think how perhaps in a distant land your father is praying just now for you, and that the heavenly Father loved us so much that He gave His only Son for us. Goodnight!"
In a little while the stars shone down upon a quiet place while the people slept.