"But that is impossible," he said.
Mrs. Srankó jumped up, and planted herself before him, with her arms crossed.
"And why is it impossible I should like to know? My money is as good as the Gongolys', isn't it?"
"But, my dear Mrs. Srankó, it was raining then, and to-morrow we shall in all probability have splendid weather."
But it was no use arguing with the good woman, for she spoke the dialect of the country better than Father János did.
"Raining, was it?" she exclaimed. "Well, all the more reason you should bring it with you to-morrow, your honor; at all events it won't get wet. And, after all, my poor dear husband was worthy of it; he was no worse than Mrs. Gongoly. Every one honored him, and he did a lot for the Church; why, it was he who five years ago sent for those lovely colored candles we have on the altar; they came all the way from Besztercebánya. And the white altar-cloth my husband's sister embroidered. So you see we have a right to the red thing."
"But I can't make myself ridiculous by burying some one with an umbrella held over me when the sun is shining. You must give up the idea, Mrs. Srankó."
Thereupon Mrs. Srankó burst into tears. What had she done to be put to such shame, and to be refused the right to give her husband all the honors due to the dead, and which were a comfort to the living too? What would the villagers say of her? They would say, "Mrs. Srankó did not even give her husband a decent funeral, they only threw him into the grave like a beggar."
"Please do it, your reverence," she begged tearfully, and kept on wiping her eyes with her handkerchief, until one of the corners which had been tied in a knot came unfastened, and out fell a ten-florin note. Mrs. Srankó picked it up, and put it carefully on the table.
"I'll give this over and above the other sum," she said, "only let us have all the pomp possible, your honor."