CHAPTER TEN
"Boast not thyself of tomorrow for thou knowest not what the day may bring forth," says the Word of God, and that truly. Even at the sheepfolds they did not dream what the next day would bring to them, the serious illness of Ondrejko's mother. The doctor, very much worried, said that the unexpected message about the arrival of her beloved father, whom she had not seen for years, shocked her so much, that she fell into a nervous illness, which he had wanted to prevent by bringing her here to the mountains. Only Palko and Bacha Filina knew that there was something more which overcame her. They spoke about it only between themselves and prayed for the lady very much. She seemed to recognize no one. She lay in her bed like a beautiful flower broken from its stem. In vain did Ondrejko whisper to her, and stroke and kiss her. She looked at him but did not answer. Only one thing consoled her poor child, that she had an expression, whether she slept or not, as though she were very happy. At times she sang beautiful songs to the honor of the Lamb; other times again, a sea ballad, and after that always the song, "My faith looks up to Thee." Thus two weeks passed by without any change.
In the meantime Lesina came; he finished what was necessary and went away, but did not take Palko with him. He could not do that to Ondrejko, who nestled to his comrade like a little bird driven out of its nest. The doctor said Ondrejko would surely be sick if his comrade left him just at this time. Bacha promised Lesina that he himself would take Palko home when the lady got better, because he believed that the lady would get well, although the doctor gave no hope that she would not die or that she would not lose her mind. For this reason also, Lesina could not take Palko away, for it seemed that the sick lady knew him. When he read in his Book she looked at him as if she listened, and though she did not say anything, she was always so quiet and happy.
In the meantime the answer came from Paris, and the unfortunate lady did not know that the boy who sat beside her bed so pale, now belonged only to her, and that no one else had any right to him. Neither did she know about another message—yes, even two; one coming from Hamburg in which her father announced that he had arrived safely; the other announcing his coming on Saturday evening to the nearest railway station. The Bacha very sadly stood at the foot of the lady's bed with both messages in his hands, and Aunty Moravec cried bitterly.
"What shall we do, Bacha Filina? He is coming from such a distance and knows nothing. How will he take it, when he finds her thus, and will hear that because of his telegram this sickness overcame her? Previously, in Russia, the doctors had told her that some day her nerves might give way. Oh, what will the poor father say? He wanted to give her joy, and it has turned out like this."
"What God does and permits, is always good," Filina said, nodding his head. "Do not worry; I am going for her father, and on the way will prepare him for what he will find here."
"Bacha Filina, take me along to meet Grandfather," begged Ondrejko, when Bacha was getting ready in the afternoon.
"I am going on foot; that would be too far for you, my boy," said Bacha, stroking the boy's head. "You just remain with your mother and wait for your grandfather here. At the station I shall take a carriage; I think that in the evening, about eight o'clock, we shall be here."
Bacha kissed the boy, though he usually did not do so, and in a moment his giant-like figure disappeared in the thicket by the clearing. He picked the shortest way over paths well-known to him, but still it took about two hours before he reached the main road leading to J——. There he suddenly stopped. He turned to the east, where on a steep rock stood an old, recently repaired cross. Oh, human memory, how strange thou art! Bacha needed only to look at the cross, and at once, as if the years flew back, it seemed to him as if he was standing there like a nineteen-year-old youth. A desire overtook him to go up to the cross, bend over its side and look again on the path on which, on that summer morning, his brother, Stephen, had left, never to return again. He went on that "breaking" ship to a "cold grave." Bacha Filina could not resist that desire. For about a quarter of an hour he kneeled at the cross, and rested his forehead on the stone step. Inexpressible sorrow shook him. It wanted to rob him of his assurance of forgiveness, but in and around him it was suddenly as if somebody sang:
"My faith looks up to Thee,
Thou Lamb of Calvary,
Saviour Divine!
Now hear me while I pray,
Take all my guilt away;
Oh, let me from this day,
Be wholly Thine!"
His heavy load of sin had been cleansed by that precious blood! The Lord Jesus took his guilt with Him on the cross and the Holy God had forgiven him! But what was he doing here now? What had he come here for? What did he waste the time here for? Yonder in the cottage, Ondrejko's mother was half-alive and half-dead, and from afar her father from beyond the ocean was coming to his child. If he, Filina, would delay here, they might miss each other at the station.
Bacha stood up, dusted off his Sunday clothes, put his firm arm around the cross and bent over, as once many years ago! It was good that the cross was firm and also the arm that clung to it. Bacha saw on the sloping path a man of slim figure, in a gentleman's suit, drawing near. Just then he stopped. He turned round; he took his hat from his head and looked in the direction where once stood Filina's hut. All that marked the place were a few half-burned timbers, now overgrown with weeds. Oh, that face! There was only one like it, never forgotten, younger—but nevertheless!
Bacha closed his eagle eyes that they might not fool him. He opened them only when the steps drew nearer to him from below. He let go the cross and crossed his arms on his chest. Looking up he stood face to face with the stranger.
"Good evening," said he.
"Oh, Stephen!" It came out of the chest of Bacha. Half cry, half terror.
"Peter! Is it you!" Two arms twined around Filina's neck.
"Stephen! You live? Really? It is not possible!"
"I live, Peter, and at last, I am coming. It is rather late, it's true, but I did not know before that the loved one who once separated us, had passed away long ago, and that you and I would not have any more heartaches. I am coming to you for my treasures, which are in your care."
"Your treasures?" Bacha was surprised still, not knowing whether it was a beautiful, but impossible dream. He could not get enough of the voice that was speaking to him. The face was older, changed, but the voice was the same. It always sounded to Peter Filina like music. And so it was today.
"We are expecting the father of Madame Slavkovsky today, and I am going to meet him."
"I am that father."
"You, Stephen?" Bacha released the stranger. "I do not understand that."
"I believe you, my Peter. Well, how you have changed, how strong you have gotten, how giantlike, like the beautiful mountains all around! I would not have recognized you, if it were not for the voice—no one has called me thus since—and by your eagle eyes under those heavy eyebrows."
"Stephen, tell me, how is it possible that you live? Was not that ship wrecked?"
"Yes, Peter, she went to the bottom of the sea; but I was among the few immigrants which another ship saved. God does not want the death of a sinner, but rather that he be converted and live; so He saved me. The first steady work that I had in America was on the farm of Mr. Slavkovsky. My daughter wrote me that she told you everything about us. Thus you know what Slavkovsky asked of me and that I agreed to do as he wished. When he heard from me that I did not want you to know that I still lived, he advised me to adopt his name and thus disappear forever from this world. His wife and son, and even my good wife, agreed with it. Thus Stephen Pribylinsky died and only Stephen Slavkovsky remained. I could not return home and live with you, as our father planned. Eva was your wife and I loved her. I did not really know God and the Lord Jesus then, nor understood His Holy Law; but this much I knew, that it would have been a constant and a great temptation for us all. Thus, I chose to die to you."
Slavkovsky finished, and out of Bacha's breast came a deep sigh. "You died for us, and until recently I worried very much about it, that I had become a murderer and was like Cain."
"You? And why?"
"Did I not drown you the second time in that swamp, by driving you to America? Eva loved you more. Had it not been for me, you could have lived as happily as in Paradise. You would have been mated much better. At my side, she perished of sorrow. My father did not live long; I took care of mother, but could not replace her son to her. See yonder the burnt remains of our hut, where we once lived so happily. Years ago, when I took up this service which I have held ever since, I rented it to a neighbor. He did not take good care and it burned down. I could, but would not rebuild it. What would it have been good for to me? I was forsaken in the world, like a stick."
Sudden quietness prevailed on the step at the foot of the cross, where both men sat. It seemed that the popular song could be applied to them:
"Mountain, green mountain, Ahoy!
My heart is hurting, sadly I cry!
Painful, so painful is my woe,
My heart is fainting, my joy is gone."
"Forgive me, Peter," suddenly said Stephen Slavkovsky. "It was not right that I hid myself from you. I have caused you much sorrow. While I imagined that you were living with Eva in our mountains, which I never could forget, perhaps surrounded with children, and our parents were happy with you—you have lived alone for years. It was not good that I did not let you know about myself. Once some one from this neighborhood came to America but did not know me and told me that father died. I had already written a letter to mother, to send her my love, but I did not send it. I thought how good I was to you, but that heart of ours is deceitful and perverse, full of self-righteousness and pride. I have done wrong both to mother and to you, but I was repaid when my only child forsook me, and after ten years I must come as far as here to find her."
Bacha roused himself, "Come, Stephen, let us delay no longer; but if we go on foot we shall arrive very late."
They both arose. "I am on foot. I have a coach; however, I told the driver to feed the horses a bit. Now I hear them; they will be ready. Let us go; on the way we can tell one another more."
Thus among the Slovak mountains rode two brothers, who had grown up among them, and were so closely united to them, that one of them in a distant land almost died of home-sickness, and the other could not have lived without them at all. Now they did not think about the beauty around them, because Stephen Slavkovsky found out his child was waiting for him, and that only the Heavenly Doctor could save His sheep which had returned to Him.
The proverb says that bad luck does not wander among the mountains but among the people. Now it was among the mountains. Who can describe the moment when the father stopped at the bed of his only child and saw her so broken and read on her beautiful face the confirmation of all of which he had once warned her. The setting sun shone upon the broken flower and on the man who was kneeling at her bed, his head laid on his crossed arms. No one dared to disturb him in his sadness and prayer. Suddenly the lady opened her eyes; she turned them to the window and began to sing softly the song which she had recently taught the boys:
"Jesus, Lover of my soul,
Let me to Thy bosom fly,
While the billows o'er me roll,
While the tempest still is high;
Hide me, O my Saviour, hide,
Till the storm of life be past;
Safe into the haven guide;
Oh, receive my soul at last."
Her father cried silently and the others with him. But she sang on, and as Joe said sometime ago, "She could do anything with them when she sang." The weeping stopped, and the small room seemed to be full of the presence of Him who is the King of Glory, the Prince of Peace, and the only Healer.
"Other refuge have I none,
Hangs my helpless soul on Thee;
Leave, oh, leave me not alone,
Still support and comfort me:
All my trust on Thee is stayed,
All my help from Thee I bring;
Cover my defenceless head
With the shadow of Thy wing."
Palko believed and felt that his Lord was there, and the lady sang on:
"Thou, O Christ, art all I want;
More than all in Thee I find;
Raise the fallen, cheer the faint,
Heal the sick and lead the blind:
Just and holy is Thy name,
I am all unrighteousness;
Vile and full of sin I am,
Thou art full of truth and grace.
"Plenteous grace with Thee is found—
Grace to cover all my sin;
Let the healing streams abound,
Make and keep me pure within;
Thou of life the fountain art,
Freely let me take of Thee;
Spring Thou up within my heart,
Rise to all eternity."
The song concluded. A silence followed during which the lady turned her look away from the window and fastened it upon the face of the man who bent over her.
"Mary, dear, my golden darling, do you not recognize me?" asked the trembling lips of the man, so tenderly, as only a good father can speak to his only child. For a moment the beautiful eyes of the lady fastened themselves on the man's eyes. The doctor entering the room at that moment, with a quick movement of his hand tried to hinder this critical situation, but it was too late. The lady's pale face glowed suddenly, as after the dark night the day breaks over the mountains.
"My father! Oh, my father!"
She sat up, stretched out her arms and would have sunk back, had not her father's arms clasped her; her head was resting on his breast, her arms twined around his neck, and the lady clung closely to him like a little chick pursued by the hawk, when the hen spreads over it her protecting wings.
"Did you come? Did you forgive? Do you love? Oh, at home, home! No more in a strange land. I am not fleeing any more—the Lord Jesus was merciful, He received me…. Now I can die!" Thus whispered the lady, crying softly, returning her father's kisses.
"Indeed not! Who would die now?" the doctor interrupted at this tender moment. "You haven't even shown Ondrejko to your father, and the poor boy can hardly wait any longer." It was as if a new life had been poured into her.
"My Ondrejko!" She stretched out her hand to the boy, still crouching beside her. "Just look! Grandfather has come, and you don't have to beg him any more. Just welcome him!"
Ondrejko found himself in the arms of his grandfather and was very surprised. He had expected to see an old man with a gray beard, but grandfather was without beard and still quite young and handsome. The boy felt, what he had never known before, what a joy it is to be kissed and hugged by a father. His saddened heart rejoiced, and he was filled with a feeling of protection and safety.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Some things happen in this world at which we cannot wonder enough. Thus it was at the sheepfolds of the Gemer estate. There still lived people in that neighborhood who had known old Filina, the father of Bacha, very well. They remembered how he had told them that one of his boys had prepared to go to America, and the other one had married at home, and when Stephen had made some money across the sea, he would return home and they would all live together. They also remembered how the message came that the ship was wrecked, and that Stephen would never see his homeland again. But that did not happen! Thirty years passed and Stephen Pribylinsky came home after all. He appeared to them as if he had been raised from the dead, and the resurrection had come when the sea had given up her dead and returned him. They spoke about his coming for his daughter and grandchild. But when the fragrance of his beloved Slovak mountains filled him, would he be able to go again far across the sea? Will he not fear that he was like a stranger, for years in a foreign land? He fared there very well, but he was not at home. Only in the homeland on that black ground was there sweet sleep.
Who can describe the surprise of all three boys when they learned who it was that came with Bacha Filina—that it was his Stephen. Palko, when he heard it, could not stay with the others. He ran away to the woods and cried there for joy. He thanked the Lord Jesus that He had comforted Bacha Filina forever. There was still salvation possible, even though the ship was wrecked. After all, he had lived to see his brother, Stephen. The Lord Jesus had given him back to Bacha.
There was something more, very good for Palko. It was not necessary for him to read to the people out of his Book. He could himself sit down at the feet of Uncle Stephen, whom he loved greatly, and listen to the truth of God from his lips. That was a joy for the boy.
Ondrejko rejoiced again that Bacha Filina belonged to his family and Petrik also. The boys hugged each other for joy that they would not now have to part any more till death. And who can describe the joy of Madame Slavkovsky when they took her again for the first time to the sheepfold. "It seemed to me at once that I was among my own, that I had come home," she said to Bacha, "and you, Bacha Filina, I loved at once like a daughter."
Then she found out all about the small and big Stephen. Bacha, himself, told her, and her father even said, "I am sorry about it, my daughter, after considering it all, that I did not let those at home know where I was, but now I see it all. The Lord Jesus in His love turned all this evil for our good. For me there in America and for Peter here at home, it is a true saying, 'He brings them to the desired haven.'"
Then Bacha Filina showed Ondrejko's estate to his brother. Since the lady had already had the deed recorded, they all rode to the castle. Petrik and Palko had to go with them also. The boys played there in the park with the rubber balls which grandfather had brought from America. The servants brought a folding-chair for the lady, since the doctor ordered her to rest in the shadow of the horse-chestnuts. She watched the play of the boys and took pleasure in their joy. Ondrejko left his comrades once in a while, ran to her, laid his curly head beside hers, kissed his mother, and on receiving her kiss, ran again with a loud "hallo" after his ball. Who could understand how much joy now filled the once-forsaken heart?
In the meantime the assistant manager showed the lady's father all the buildings and those cattle which were not in the pasture. He noticed that Mr. Slavkovsky understood the affairs of the estate, and when he pointed out one thing and another that should have been different, Mr. Slavkovsky said seriously, "I see it." Finally he spoke up, "There will have to be a different management from the bottom up, in order that everything may prosper."
In the meantime the cook prepared a splendid repast for the new owners. She set it outside under the horse-chestnuts, so the lady would not have to enter the house. The castle had been bought with all its furnishings. If the proud Lady de Gemer, the grandmother of the last lord, could have awakened from the dead and seen how her porcelain dishes and table-covers were spread before the despised Slovaks, she would have turned over in her beautiful casket. But now that could not be helped. Bacha Filina arranged his matters with the housekeeper. At the repast he ate very little because he could not take his eyes from the boys, how they ate, and how Ondrejko urged his comrades to eat. The lady also rejoiced very much over them. Even the doctor laughed heartily about it, but at the same time took care that his patient did not forget to eat. He did not urge her to take the various sweets served, but he did the fruit. Only Mr. Slavkovsky was somewhat buried in thought. They almost had to force him into conversation.
After their meal the boys again began to play, and asked the two boys of the assistant manager to help them. Mr. Slavkovsky walked along the lane till, from a turn in it, he could overlook the beautiful, but now neglected garden. Suddenly he took off his hat and prayed. By the time he ended, Bacha stood beside him.
"Is there something which does not suit you, my brother?" he asked thoughtfully. "Do you think we have paid too much for the estate, since everything is so neglected?"
"I do not think so, Peter. It is really cheaply bought in spite of all its neglect." He smiled kindly on his brother.
"Nevertheless you seem to be troubled by something."
"Certain cares trouble me. Just now I laid them all at the feet of our heavenly Father. Now I do not worry more about anything. He surely will arrange everything. I will tell you, my brother, what it was. But for the time, keep it to yourself. I cannot take my daughter to America now, since she is so weak. Here in our homeland she will get well sooner. My beloved grandchild I need not take there, since he has enough here to live on. Now when my daughter takes this estate over, she needs a manager. It is hard to find one that would not cheat her. Then I thought, why does she need a manager, if she still has a father young enough, and who knows how to run a farm in Europe?"
"Oh, Stephen!" Filina was astonished.
"But, you know, there is a great hindrance. My farm is deeded to me. My brother-in-law I can settle with, and thus that would not hinder me. But my beloved wife was born in America. Will she want to leave her home and go to a foreign land? I would not like to constrain her in anything. I will first have to write to her about all that has happened, and if I see from her answer that it would not be too great a sacrifice for her, I will go for her. I will then sell the farm and deposit the money, because I would not want to add to this estate. It is big enough for us to make a living, and I could earn, as a manager, bread for myself and my wife, and she could rest; she has worked enough."
"Day and night will I ask the Lord Jesus about it," said Filina, "that He will lead your wife to agree, because round about us is only darkness. No one cares for these souls. They do not know the Lord Jesus. I have not been able to imagine how we could live here when the boy would leave us. But you could take his place."
"That hardly, Peter. The Lord Jesus has in Palko a faithful servant. That measure of the Holy Spirit that this child has, I do not have. But instead I have experiences with my Lord. The last ten years of suffering united me very closely to Him who saves. I know your sorrows. Considering the situation, I long to be the witness of God's grace here in my homeland, where there is no one else. That also draws me here to my beautiful homeland. Therefore I hope that my Agnes will agree that we shall come, and it will happen after all as your father used to say to the people; 'When Stephen shall have made some money beyond the sea and comes back again, we shall live together.' Now there is no more all of us, only we two. And if the Lord grants me to come again, do you know what is the first thing that I will do?"
"I do not."
"I will rebuild our hut. It shall lay waste no longer. I will prepare it for Petrik. You shall raise him and give him the ground and the fields. So if he lives, we can take care of him together."
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sometimes the days pass as quickly as a thought, and the weeks like a dream. In the following weeks which just flew by, Bacha Filina took Palko to his home. He became acquainted with his family. Just then Juriga's son and daughter-in-law came from America, and Lesina had to find a place to move to. They all rejoiced in Palko. His mother and grandmother could hardly stop caressing him. Old Juriga had a good cry when the boy hugged him.
Lesina complained to Bacha that he was worrying about his wife living with the wife of Juriga's son. Juriga's daughter-in-law was a gossiping, noisy person, and had two small children who were disobedient cry-babies. It was because of those two little ones that Juriga's son had returned to the home country. His older children had been dying one after the other. Here was Filina's opportunity to give Lesina good advice, namely, to take his wife, her mother, and Palko, and move before the winter to his cottage in the Gemer mountains. He told him also that Madame Slavkovsky meant to give him some trees from a piece of land that needed to be replanted. In the meantime he could find some other place where he would like to stay. All they would have to take with them would be their clothing and small belongings, because any other things needed they would find in the castle: bedsteads, tables, chairs, and all that was necessary for the kitchen. They were all very thankful for this good advice.
In those weeks that had passed so quickly, Madame Slavkovsky moved with her father and Aunty Moravec to the castle. Every morning she rode to the sheepcotes and remained till the evening. Once in a while she also stayed overnight in Ondrejko's hut. At other times, she took the boys along. In the castle under the supervision of Mr. Slavkovsky, many changes were made, and when the gardener had the means at his disposal and the advice of his master, he went joyfully to work. In two weeks you would not have recognized the garden nor the castle. The masons repaired broken places, the painters painted everything, the joiners repaired doors, window-frames, and hardwood floors. In the course of the repairs, chairs, bedsteads, and tables, and more that was necessary in the cottage of Palko, was set aside, in order that when the Lesinas came they might have plenty on hand to settle and feel at home. Even for Dunaj they fixed a nice dog-kennel, so he wouldn't have to suffer in rainy weather.
* * * * *
It was again a beautiful summer evening. In front of the sheepcotes everything was ready for a big bonfire. Bacha Filina called all his helpers and told them they would have a celebration such as none of them had seen before. Through the woods in the direction of the cottage wandered Petrik, Ondrejko, and between them, Palko. Ahead of them, chasing one another, ran Dunaj and Fido. They also rejoiced to see each other. The boys returned from a visit at Lesina's and carried with them all kinds of gifts. A water-gun, by which you could squirt the water to the top of the highest trees; singing tops which could spin almost a quarter of an hour. From Palko's mother they got a whole box full of prunes filled with nuts, which Ondrejko thought were better than figs and dates.
"My mother is very glad today!" Ondrejko told Palko, "because a letter came at last from my grandmother in America. They gave me a letter written especially for me, in which grandmother writes very nicely. I will show it to you afterwards, Petrik."
"They even sent greetings for me," said the comrade.
"What they wrote to mother, I don't know, but mother ran to grandfather, threw herself into his arms and cried and laughed. I am sure they did not want me to understand, because they spoke English, but they will tell us all about it. Bacha Filina said we shall have a celebration."
"We also have a song, such a beautiful one, and that will be sung tonight, and I am sure your parents will like it," said Petrik.
It really was a beautiful celebration. First of all, on two spits they roasted two lambs. Bacha Filina portioned out large pieces of the best kind of cheese to everybody. Madame Slavkovsky handed out pears and large plums. Stephen brought two large crocks of mineral water to wash down the roasted mutton. Aunty Moravec divided rolls and cookies among all. They all served Palko's quiet, lovely mother, and his good old grandmother, and his father as well. Then they sat around the bonfire. Mr. Slavkovsky prayed, opened the Holy Writ, read Psalm 103, and spoke very nicely about the great forgiving love of God. Then they sang the beautiful songs which the lady had brought. But Palko also had to read in his Book. He read about Cornelius who, with his whole house, received the Lord Jesus. Palko spoke so beautifully about how sad it was that in the house of the great man, though he often prayed and did much good, he did not know the way to the true Sunshine Country, since he did not know the Lord Jesus. How happy he was afterwards, when he and his devout knights and his obedient soldiers welcomed the Apostle Peter there, and with him also, the Lord Jesus, whom they forever received in their house and heart. Then on a sign from the lady they started a beautiful song which Palko had not heard before, but which was very fitting to his story.
"I heard the voice of Jesus say,
'Come unto Me and rest;
Lay down, thou weary one, lay down
Thy head upon My breast,'
I came to Jesus as I was,
Weary and worn and sad,
I found in Him a resting-place,
And He has made me glad."
As that song sounded over the woods, it was noticeable from the faces of the hearers around the camp fire, that they all had experienced it, but especially from the serious face of Filina. Then it was so silent that you could hear the distant bells of the sheep. Though the sky was covered with storm-clouds, and the lightning was to be seen in the west once in a while, and in the distance the rolling of the thunder was heard, the storm was nevertheless very far away, and would not yet come there.
Suddenly Bacha Filina arose, and after he had first thanked the Lord Jesus in an audible prayer that He came and also sought and saved that which was lost, he began to explain what they were celebrating, and which pleased him most—not only Madame Slavkovsky, but her father also was remaining in the Gemer mountains. He said, "Tomorrow Mr. Slavkovsky will leave for America to bring his wife here. When he has sold his farm there, he will at once return to his birthplace to leave it no more." Bacha's eyes were full of tears when he gave the message, but added, "Is not that very joyful news?"
Who can describe the joy that prevailed after that? Ondrejko hugged his mother and grandfather and nestled next to Bacha Filina. "We shall all stay at home, at home with Bacha Filina. We shall not go into the distant foreign world. Oh, we remain in our mountains. Even Palko will be here with us," he said.
"Yes, my son." The grandfather drew the boy close to him. "We shall remain at home. We shall live here together with the Lord Jesus and He with us."
After a while the campfire began to die down. The voices subsided. Only in the distance the thunder rolled, the lightning flashed, but above the sheepcotes shone the clear stars. Around the buildings Bacha Filina made his rounds, watching that no danger threatened anywhere, and again at the bench—as once long ago—he stopped. This time, the father and daughter sat there together; no longer a prodigal, she had returned first to the heavenly, and then to the earthly father. She had come home and was accepted. He wanted to step aside, but they had been waiting for him.
"We knew that you would pass by," said Slavkovsky, and made room for his brother beside himself. "Mary has a request to make of you."
"Me?" Bacha was surprised.
"Yes, you, my dear Uncle. Cease to be 'Bacha.' Come among us. You shall have the supervision of things; be one family with us," the lady begged with her whole heart, but Bacha shook his head.
"I thank you, my daughter," he spoke, deeply moved, "I would love to make one family with you because you are all very dear to me; but do not take me away from my calling. Once I started as an unhappy man, and this occupation cheered me in my sorrow. I grew up with the sheep, with the work and with nature about me. Now when the heavens have opened above me, leave me at this heaven's gate. Do not let it vex you that you have a rich estate and I am but a poor 'Bacha.' All that I need for my living, I shall earn honestly. I have somewhere to live, and you love me; I am no more alone. You will come to visit me and I will visit you, especially when you, my brother, return. Only one thing I ask of you, if you have more than you need for your living, send Palko to school. His father grieves that he is not able to do it for him. God has given him what no school can supply, but if people with such faith could stand in the pulpits there would be a real awakening in our nation."
"Oh, Bacha Filina, I thank you. I have been thinking about the same thing, only did not dare to speak with Lesina about it." The lady grasped Bacha's hard hand in hers. "Believe me, we will gladly do anything for Palko. He brought us life and salvation; let him in the future carry it to thousands."
The quiet mysterious night settled upon the world, its silence broken only by the soft sound of the shepherd's flute. Stephen had the night watch and thus he played to himself:
"If I but knew where she abides,
Where to the night so quickly glides,
I would like an arrow run,
And thus compel it to return."
But the night was passing, never more to return; but what about it? After it a new morning will arise, and with it the fresh grace of God for those who receive the Lord Jesus, and to whom He gives the right to be the sons and daughters of God.
Would that all souls would receive Him!