"Misfortune? No," said Therese, with a melancholy smile.
"My heart was sore when I saw the dead trees," said Michael, to excuse his serious looks.
"The flood last summer did that," answered Therese; "walnut-trees can not stand wet."
"And how are you both?" asked Timar, uneasily.
Therese answered gently, "We are pretty well, I and the other two."
"What do you mean? the other two?"
She smiled and sighed, and smiled again; then she laid her hand on Michael's shoulder and said, "The wife of a poor smuggler fell ill here: the woman died, the child remained here. Now you know who the other two are."
Timar rushed into the house: at the far end of the room stood a cradle woven of osiers, and near it, on one side, was Almira, on the other Noémi. Noémi rocked the cradle and waited till Timar came to her. In it lay a little baby, with chubby cheeks, which pressed the cherry lips into a soft pout; its eyes were only half shut, and the tiny fists lay over its face. Michael stood spell-bound before the cradle. He looked at Noémi as if to seek the answer to the riddle in her face, on which a sweet ray of heavenly light seemed to shine, in which modesty and love were combined. She smiled and cast her eyes down. Michael thought he would lose his senses.
Therese laid her hand on his arm, "Then are you angry that we have adopted the orphan child of the poor smuggler's wife? God sent it to us."
Angry? He had fallen on his knees, and held the cradle in his embrace, pressing it and its inhabitant to his breast; then he began to sob violently, like one who has kept a whole ocean of sorrow in his heart, which suddenly overflows its bounds.