Theodor Krisstyan could never have dreamed that he would be so highly honored after his death.
CHAPTER VIII.
DODI'S LETTER.
A year and a half passed away since Michael came home to the ownerless island. He had not left it for a single day.
Great events had occurred during this interval. Dodi had learned to write. What joy when the little dunce made his first attempt with chalk on a board: the letters are dictated to him—"write l and ó, and then pronounce them both together." He was surprised that that meant ló (Hungarian for horse), and yet he had not drawn a horse. A year later he could address a birthday letter to his mother in beautiful copper-plate on white paper—it was a greater achievement than Cleopatra's Needle, covered with hieroglyphics.
When Dodi's first letter was fluttering in Noémi's hand, she said, with a tear in her eye, to Michael, "He will write like you."
"Where have you seen my handwriting?" asked Michael, in surprise.
"In the copies you set Dodi, to begin with; and then too in the contract by which you gave us the island. Have you forgotten?"
"Yes; it is so long ago."
"And do you not write to any one now?"