Anna wrung her hands in despair. Should she own she had not sent off the telegram? No, she dare not tell him; she would carry on the deception, and send Matykó out to the gate. But the sick man got more and more restless.
"Anna," he said, "take the horn out, and tell Matykó to blow it when the boy arrives, so that I may know at once."
So Anna took down the horn, and had less courage than ever to own the truth.
The sick man was quieter after that, and listened attentively, raising his head at every sound, and feeling for his umbrella every now and then.
"Open the window, Anna, or I shan't hear Matykó blow the horn."
The sunlight streamed in through the open window, and the perfume of acacia blossoms was borne in on the breeze.
"Put your hand on my forehead, Anna."
She did as she was told, and found his skin cold and dry. The sick man sighed.
"Your hand is too rough, Anna. The boy's is so soft and warm."
He smiled faintly, then opened his eyes.