“Good-evening!”
“Your dog does not bite, grandfather?”
“No, come along, he won’t touch you.”
“I have been at the hospital,” said Lipa after a pause. “My little son died there. Here I am carrying him home.”
It must have been unpleasant for the old man to hear this, for he moved away and said hurriedly:
“Never mind, my dear. It’s God’s will. You are very slow, lad,” he added, addressing his companion; “look alive!”
“Your yoke’s nowhere,” said the young man; “it is not to be seen.”
“You are a regular Vavila.”
The old man picked up an ember, blew on it—only his eyes and nose were lighted up—then, when they had found the yoke, he went with the light to Lipa and looked at her, and his look expressed compassion and tenderness.
“You are a mother,” he said; “every mother grieves for her child.”