"How could I jest with God now, when I am preparing to enter his presence?"
"How could I jest with your heart?" said Lorand.
"And with a dying girl," panted Czipra.
"No, no, you will not die, you will get well again, and we shall be happy."
"You say that now when I am dying," said the girl with sad reproach. "You tell me the whole beautiful world is thine, now, when of that world I shall have nothing but the clod of earth, which you will throw upon me."
"No, my child," said Topándy, "Lorand asked your hand of me yesterday evening, and was only awaiting his mother's approval to tell you yourself his feelings towards you."
A quick flash of joy darted over the girl's face, and then it darkened again.
"Why, I know," she said brushing aside her tangled curls from her face, "I know your intentions are good. You are doing with me what people do with sick children. 'Get well! We'll buy you beautiful clothes, golden toys, we'll take you to places of amusement, for journeys—we shall be good-humored—will never annoy you:—only get well.' You want to give the poor girl pleasure, to make her better, I thank you for that too."
"You will not believe me," said Lorand, "but you will believe the minister's word. See last night I wrote a letter to mother about you: it lies sealed on my writing-table. Reverend sir, be so kind as to open and read it before her. She will believe you if you tell her we are not cajoling her."
The minister opened the letter, while Czipra, holding Lorand's hand, listened with rapt attention to the words that were read: