Suddenly a resounding noise broke the stillness of the day. What was it? A carriage. The old man started, put down his pipe, and rose. The old woman put her head, wrapped in a white shawl, out over the railings. The rumbling vehicle, an ugly Jew upon the box, drew nearer, and pulled up outside the door of the old house. A strong, broad-shouldered young man descended, a big bundle in his right hand, a case in his left.
“Roman! Roman!” cried the old lady in a feeble voice. She tried to rise but fell softly back beside the flowers.
“There, there, old lady, it is Roman,” murmured the old man gaily, as he went down the stairs.
“Mr. Roman!” cried a gentle voice, and Magdalena’s fair head appeared at the window.
Roman had let fall the bundle and thrown himself into his father’s arms.
“Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” murmured Vladimir Savicky, with tears in his eyes. He embraced his son, and pressed him to his heart. “Yes, old lady, it is Roman!” That was all he could find to say.
“Mother,” cried the young man, “I have not seen you for ten years.”
The old mother cried silently, her son strained her to his breast, while the old man wandered round murmuring tearfully into his beard:
“Yes, yes, old lady, it is our Roman.”
As Roman Savicky straightened his strong frame and turned round, he saw a white face with blue eyes in the doorway. He stood transfixed with astonishment; the girl watched him, smiling shyly.