Ana was so beautiful and so graceful. With her white hands and her fair face one would never have believed her to be the daughter of an artisan. Her big blue eyes, so full of kindness, were shaded by black eyelashes, and when she laughed one’s heart glowed in the joyous sound, and one wished one could often hear her laughing.
Iotza—he had been workman with Dinu for a long time—when the mistress was out of the house, had more than once asked her to mend something for him, and not infrequently she had brought him drink from the cellar when the frost was sharp and he had complained that he could not stand the cold. And with all his prudence Iotza had let drop a word in the workshop in praise of Ana’s kindness.
And so it came about that they all waited for the mistress to go out that they might speak to Ana and ask her one thing or another.
Only Sandu had never been to her. And that was why he especially wanted now to divert her thoughts and make her smile.
Her eyes troubled him, and he felt happier when he found himself back in the workshop.
One day, according to the allotment of the work, it was his duty to turn the skins in the vats full of birch bark solution. He was alone in the workshop, he could work in peace, but he often let the stick fall from his hand, for, unlike other days, that day the fumes made him perspire, and he did not notice whether the skins were thoroughly turned. There was one vat more to turn when the door opened gently.
“Good luck, Sandu.”
Sandu raised his head as though he were in a dream, wiped away the sweat, and looked at Ana as one looks at a person one does not the least expect to see. He wanted to say something to her, but a lump rose in his throat. Ana came nearer to him.
“Sandu, I came to tell you to put the sandals in the box after you have turned the skins.”
“Good,” replied Sandu.