It was autumn, the first frost was felt, and it was Saint Simon and Saint Jude's. Everywhere within sight of the stern mountains the people look upon this day as the herald of winter; the women see to their larders, and the men assemble to fix each household's share of firewood from the common forest. This being done, Simeon, the new judge, had gone to the manse to arrange with Father Leo concerning the pope's due. That was soon settled, but the two men continued in mournful conversation, and Father Leo scarcely had the heart to dissent from the judge's doleful remark that the miserable field had cost the village not only one of its stalwart youths, but another and more precious life as well, inasmuch as it seemed beyond a doubt that poor Taras had perished. Sympathy with his fate thus kept them talking, the dusk of evening descending with its own stillness, broken at times by the wailings of Anusia, who once again had come with her troubles to the kind-hearted popadja.
There was a knock at the outer door, and almost simultaneously they heard the poor wife's shriek--: "Taras!" They flew from the room.
It was a mystery how Anusia had recognised her husband without seeing him or hearing his voice, or even his footfall; but it was himself. "Are you quite well?" he cried, as he caught her to his heart. "I have seen the children already!"
The friends fell back reverently to leave the husband and wife to each other; but then they also pressed round him to shake hands joyfully, and the popadja hastened to light her lamp. But when Taras entered the lighted apartment a heartrending shriek broke from Anusia, and the friends also stood horrified. Poor Taras looked sadly worn--old and grey, and life's hope, as it were, crashed out of him. His powerful frame was emaciated; the sunny hair showed colourless streaks; the furrow between the brows had grown deeper still, and the eyes looked hollow in the haggard face.
"You bring ill news, brother!" cried Simeon, aghast.
"Ill news!" repeated Taras. He endeavoured to smile, but failed sadly; and when the tears sprang to every eye about him, he, too, sat down and let his own trouble flow unhindered.
"My poor, dear darling!" sobbed Anusia, covering his head with her kisses and her tears--"come back to us a grey-haired man!"
But her grief helped Taras to recover himself, and now he did smile. He drew down his wife beside him, stroking her own brown hair gently. "Is not that like a woman," he said, striving to appear light-hearted, "to make a fuss because the man she wedded must turn grey in his time! The glory of youth is treacherous, my dear!... But tell me about yourselves now, and about the village."
"Tell us about yourself," they cried. "We have died with anxiety these months past. Where have you been all this time?"
"It was not possible to come back sooner," said he. "It is a long journey to Vienna, and I had to wait many a day before I could see him----"