"I was not in the city, Palko; but what are you doing here?" Filina was cheered with Palko's presence and sat down on an old log overgrown with moss. The boy joyfully threw himself down on the deep mossy cushions.

"I carried a letter to Stephen which the forester's boy brought for him from his mother. It cheered him very much. She had been sick, but now she writes to him herself. Praise the Lord!"

"I am very glad of that; she is a good woman. And the son which has no mother has no home anywhere," said Filina. "Where did you find these mushrooms?"

"They are beautiful, aren't they? Oh, I just happened to see them. Joe said he would cook the stew for supper. They will fit in well."

"Yes, they will. Pick out the best ones, and take them to the ladies this afternoon, in your cabin. Perhaps they will like them."

"Shall I really go for the lady? Will it not be too far for her yet?" thoughtfully asked the boy.

"I think not, but you must go slowly."

"But she is still so weak, Uncle."

"I know it; I have just left her."

"Is that so? You saw her? And you just came from there? Did you stop there on the way from town?"

Bacha was silent for a moment as if deciding something. Then he fastened his eagle eyes on the boy's face. "Palko, I am going to tell you something. God grant that you may help me in a very difficult thing."

"I would love to, Uncle. Just tell me."

"The master of these sheepfolds is Ondrejko's father. You know that; do you not?"

"Yes, I know it."

"And the beautiful lady there, is his mother."

"What did you say!" Palko jumped up at once and sat down again. "But how is it that they are not together, and that Ondrejko is not with them?"

"They had parted, and he took another wife many years ago."

"And the Lord Jesus permitted that? It seems to me that He said, 'It should not be so.'"

"You know, Palko, the world does many things that the Lord God forbids—even this. I know it is a sin, but it is already that way and it cannot be changed now. The lady, before De Gemer took her, was a famous singer in America. She must have been very beautiful because she is still so today. He brought her to Europe to his family. They were displeased with him because the lady was not of noble birth. They did not treat her well, and he did not stand by her as would have been his duty. Because as far as I know him, he is not the man to guard his wife against the whole world. It may also be that he has been sorry already, that he had shut himself out of the world because of her, while on the other hand, many noble ladies were offered him. How it was among themselves, I do not know. I only know that once, when he was not at home, she took the boy and fled away. Then they lived in Budapest. She did not know how to make a living any other way—so she gave the boy into the care of strange people, and went again to the theatre. Then came the law suit. He charged her with leaving him, and she did not want to return to him, so the court separated them. They adjudged the boy to his father, and so he came to us. While Ondrejko was with those people, where she cared for him, they told him all good things about her, but when he came to where his father put him you can imagine that they did not speak well of her. So the poor boy has heard all kinds of stories about his mother, and yet he longs for her, and so I visited the lady today. I wanted to advise her how she could take the boy herself and acknowledge him today. Therefore I tell you, Palko, everything, that you may tell Ondrejko who it is that is coming to us today."

There was silence in the mountains. Bacha looked at the boy deep in thought. "Will you tell him, Palko?"

"Yes, Uncle. But I must first ask the Lord Jesus for help, for that is not a small thing. It is good that Ondrejko is already God's lamb. He will even help his mother to find the Lord Jesus Christ. Yes, we will do that part. But, Uncle Filina, when will you tell me that you have received Him?—that you are His?" The question from the boy, put with so much loving concern, brought the tears into the man's eyes.

"I do not know myself, what to tell you, my boy. It is all so strange to me. From the time that I took the Lord Jesus, like Zaccheus, it seems to me there is no more of that great burden that always oppressed me. Sometimes it seems to me as if the Son of God was actually with me, and when I read the Bible it seems as though He is living in my heart and opens my eyes. Now I don't know, my boy, what more can I do."

"Oh, Uncle," Palko began to jump for joy. "Really, you have already accepted Him. He came and took away your load, and threw it behind God's back."

"What do you say, boy?" said the surprised man. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that is all. We are only to believe Him. You know well how He said, 'Come unto Me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' Don't you believe He means what He says?"

"I do believe, my boy, and already believe, and even understand all like Zaccheus. He came to seek and to save that which was lost. He came to seek even me, the lost sinner, and I let Him find me."

When the next moment they kneeled before God, the man and the boy, there was great joy in heaven that again a sinner had received the Lord Jesus Christ. Because to those who receive Him, to them gave He power to be the sons of God. Thus the angels wrote His name in the Lamb's book of Life. They wrote that Peter Filina believed, and that Jesus of Nazareth took his heavy burden of sin upon His cross, there suffered for him the penalty of death, and thus it was that Filina was forgiven all, and received the Son of God for ever and ever. So for the first time Filina prayed with his whole heart to God as his Father. He thanked the Lamb of God for His death, and thanked Him also for Palko whom He had sent to those mountains.

When they were done, the boy sighed deeply. Said he, "Since I am finished with you, I don't have to ask the Lord Jesus any more for you, but can ask so much better for Ondrejko's mother. Surely He will grant to me that she will soon accept Him too."

They went together a little way, but Bacha turned to the clearings and Palko ran back again to the hut at the sheepfold. On the way, he sang until the echo rang everywhere.

There was much stirring in the hut that afternoon. The boys cleaned and arranged everything so that no particle of dust could be found anywhere. They brought flowers to Ondrejko that he might braid a chain of them. It was a very long one. Bacha himself afterwards draped it over the door.

"Well, it is time for me to go," announced Palko. "Ondrejko, come with me part of the way. I saw some nice flowers not far away and you can pick them. These we will place on the table afterwards."

"Verily it is time that you go," agreed Bacha, "and go together."

Ondrejko obeyed very gladly. Merrily the boys went into the woods and soon found the flowers they wanted.

"Let us sit down a while," said Palko when they had picked the flowers and placed them in the nearby spring. "I would like to tell you something. Do you remember anything about your mother?"

"About my mother?" said the surprised Ondrejko. That kind of question he did not expect. "I remember but a little, that she was very beautiful, and had a very fine voice."

"And if she suddenly came for you, would you be glad?"

"For me?" and the boy's beautiful eyes opened wide. "She cannot come for me any more, because I do not belong to her, but to father."

"And what did the lady where you lived formerly tell you about her?"

"That she left father and me because she loved the theatre more than us, and because sometimes the people hitched themselves to wagons instead of horses, and gave her beautiful jewels."

"And you believed it?" retorted Palko, with clouded face.

"No, I did not believe it, because I loved her, loved her very much."

"You are right; don't you believe it. Bacha Filina told me that she went away because your father's family did not like her because she was not of noble birth as themselves. But she went to the theatre only because she could not make her living otherwise. Your father brought her from a very great distance to which she could not return. What could she do? What the theatre is, I do not know. Only that she sang there beautifully. Perhaps that would not have been so bad if she had known the Lord Jesus as we know Him. He would surely have advised and helped her otherwise, and if that which she did was wrong, when she once knows Jesus and asks Him to forgive her, He will do so. But we must tell her about Him, you and I."

"We? But she is far away, very far."

"Do not believe it, Ondrejko. The Lord Jesus sent her back as far as here. The lady at our cottage—that is she."

"You say that is she?" Ondrejko jumped up.

"Yes, yes; that is she."

"She was just like her, and had the same kind of a voice! And so it aroused in my heart remembrances of long ago when she spoke and when I looked at her. It seems to me I recognized her, but she didn't know me," sadly sighed the boy, and his eyes filled with tears.

"But how could she have recognized you in those farmer's clothes? We too, Petrik and I, hardly recognized you."

"Do you think so?" Ondrejko calmed down. "Palko, take me to her; she doesn't know that I am her Andreas. She doesn't know me."

"She knows already. Uncle Filina was there. He told her the truth."

"Oh, then take me with you, because I have made her very sad—till she almost died."

"I don't care. Come, then. Surely the Lord Jesus wants it so."

* * * * *

No matter how long Ondrejko Gemersky lives he will never be able to forget how it was when the doors in the cottage opened and a beautiful lady in a light blue dress, the color of forget-me-nots, stepped out. In her hands she carried a broad hat, but she dropped it with a cry, "My Ondrejko!" as she ran toward them. He flew like an arrow to meet her.

"Mother, my mother!"—and already held her around the neck. She, kneeling, hugged him to her breast. They both cried, and Palko with them.

"Oh, mother, my mother, how I love you! Verily I am yours, and surely you will keep me now," begged Ondrejko with tears. He stroked the beautiful face and forehead of the lady.

"Yes, you are mine." She jumped up. "I will not give you up any more to anyone, anyone in the world. But no, come, my son, we have to go to Bacha Filina. He will take care of it, that no one can take you away from me."

Surely Ondrejko will never forget this, nor how they walked together to the sheepcote, how well they were received there, what a good time they had that afternoon and evening, because Ondrejko's mother slept together with Aunty Moravec in his hut. Bacha counted on that. He took counsel with Aunty and sent Stephen to the cottage to bring whatever was necessary for the lady, especially sheets, covers, etc. Thus Ondrejko sat beside his mother in the evening when Joe roasted the lamb over the fire, and Petrik helped Aunty to cook soup in the pot.

Bacha told them about the life at the sheepcotes, and many interesting things from his experiences with the flocks. Then they had supper together, there in the open. Then they sang the evening song, prayed, and Palko read from his Book. At Filina's request he read the 15th chapter of the Gospel of Luke, about a good shepherd, about a woman who lost her coin, and about a prodigal son who had a good father, but nevertheless ran away from him, and how badly he fared in the world until he returned to his father. During the reading Palko made many beautiful remarks, as he usually did. They all loved to hear him. When he closed, only the fire crackled, and the stars in the heavens were sparkling like a multitude of eyes. The moon lit up the tops of the mountains and woods. Often one of the sheep rang its bell in the fold.

Bacha suddenly lifted up his bowed head, and spoke with a voice such as they had never heard before: "That lost and found sheep am I, my children. The gracious Lord God forgave all my sins. The Lord Jesus sought and found me, and I have surrendered myself to Him altogether, including our huts. Let us pray."

He took his hat off, folded his hands, and prayed thus, "Our Father," in such a manner, that nobody had ever heard such a prayer before. Never will Ondrejko de Gemer forget that moment, but I think that none of the others present there will ever be able to forget it either.

When in the huts everything quieted down—not even the dogs barked that night—Bacha, as his custom was, walked all around to see if there was any danger anywhere, before he betook himself to rest. He walked also around the wooden hut and suddenly stopped. There on Ondrejko's little bench, under the window, wrapped up in a shawl, Madame Slavkovsky sat in the moonlight. Her hands were twined around her knees, and she was thoughtfully looking into the beautiful starry night. He coughed, that she might not be startled. She turned her head, and with a motion indicated her wish that he should take a place beside her. He obeyed.

"You said, Bacha Filina, that that lost and found sheep was you," she began in her sweet, sad voice. "That woman who lost that coin is also I. More than that even, I am the prodigal daughter."

"What do you mean by that, lady?" asked Filina seriously.

"When Palko explained how good that father was and how the naughty boy left him, I thought that I did just that to my good dear father; and therefore, from that time on, what sad experiences I have had!" She sighed deeply.

"Tell me all about it. I am an old man and could be your father. I shall understand you."

"Yes, I will tell you everything, because if you had not saved my poor child he would not have had anybody. Did you not care for him like a father?"

"We lived on a beautiful farm in America," she went on. "My grandfather and grandmother came from Bohemia as a young couple. They bought a small farm and worked diligently, and God blessed them. They were good people, who trusted in God. They had one son and a daughter. Their son wanted to study, so they sent him to school. As he did not work on the farm they had to take a helper, and he also came from the old country. They took a liking for him at once because he fitted in so well in the family. Once when grandfather was so seriously ill that he thought he would die, he called his helper and asked him, since he was single and without relatives in the land, if he would marry his daughter. He would be more easy if he knew in whose hands he had left his daughter and wife. That the daughter liked the good-looking and good-hearted young man, they knew well. But the young man asked for some time to think it over, and then told their daughter his history from the old country. What it all was I don't know, and when she, in spite of it all, was willing to take him, he acceded to my grandfather's wish, and none of them were ever sorry for it. My father was very kind to my mother. She had no reason to be sorry that she had married him. Grandfather recovered from his illness. For many years after that he worked together with his son-in-law and everything went well, so that with his help the small farm became a large one. My recollections are only of the big farm. I was their only child. My uncle Vojta was at that time a professor in New York, was married, and advised my parents to send me to him there, that I might go to school and become a lady. Grandfather approved of this; thus I was at home only in the summer, and over the winter at Uncle's in school till I was really trained. My Uncle noticed that I had a talent for singing, and the teachers confirmed it. Without the knowledge of my home folks he sent me to learn to sing. I loved to sing, but loved still more the praise showered upon me by the audiences at the school-concerts.

"In the meantime, so great a change transpired in my home that I hardly recognized it when they called me to grandfather's deathbed. Our farm was not far from the mountains. In those mountains was a mission conference for several weeks. Our whole family used to go to listen to those speakers who held religious lectures there—and all of them, as it was well-known about there, turned to Christ. I shall never forget how happy grandfather died, how he blessed us all, and with what fortitude grandmother bore her loss. For the first time I was really glad to be able to run away from my dear parents to my Uncle's. My beloved ones started a family altar at home. They sang songs to the honor of the Lamb who, they claimed, had delivered them from their sins. Well, I did not like to sing those songs. It seemed to me as if even the walls of our house would fall down on me.

"My splendid, kind father let me go sadly. I had half-a-year more school to complete, and one more examination. My dear parents rejoiced that then I would be wholly their's, because they had only me, and for me they worked and saved. My Uncle agreed with me in everything. Like me, he did not want to enter the narrow path which leads to glory. With the conclusion of the school-year, my study of singing also ended, and I returned home with the intention of persuading my parents to permit me to enter the opera—that means, to become a singer. More than half-a-year I fought at home with pleas and tears, but in vain. My father was wonderfully patient and kind to me. Mother and grandmother were often not so patient, but, like these grand mountains, they would not move, nor could anyone move my father to break his word that he would never give me permission to go. Well, what he did not give me, I took myself."

"What did you do?" compassionately asked Bacha. The lady broke out crying.

"I left home, leaving a letter behind saying that I loved the world, in which and for which, I wanted to live, and I loved the glory of the world and did not want to bury myself on the farm. I ran away to my Uncle's. My dear father came at once for me. He begged and pled, but I didn't want to go back with him, and did not do so.

"'When you find out that the world is as vain as soap-bubbles, and your heart is full of disillusionment, ready to despair, then remember that you have a father and a home to return to,' said father. 'Until that time you cannot count yourself one of us. We are standing on two different paths: the one we go on is narrow and leads high; the other, which you have chosen, is broad and will lead you from the heights to a deep abyss. Our prayers will surround you always like a fiery wall. I know that you will have to suffer much evil and much sorrow, but our prayers will prevent you from sinning as grievously as you will see others do around you.'

"Those were his last words. Oh, Bacha Filina, I went over that broad path. In a short time I was a famous singer. The people carried me on their arms. Though I was a simple farmer's daughter, because of the courses of the good schools which I had attended, the doors of high society opened to me, and I, like the prodigal, very soon forgot my parents, and especially my good father. Then Lord Gemer came into my life, and I married him, being ready to leave everything for him, even my fame. He promised me that even when I was his wife, he would agree to my keeping on with my singing. He kept that promise while we were in America and Italy. But in his native country it was impossible.

"And then everything began to turn out just as my dear father foretold. But I don't want to talk about that. I just wanted to say that I am that prodigal son."

"That you are, my lady, but only half-way; because the son returned, and you haven't returned yet."

"No, you are right. I haven't returned yet. When I had forsaken the man who betrayed me, I was ashamed, for I was forsaken, betrayed, and robbed of all means to return home. When I asked my uncle to help me, though he sent me some money, he also sharply admonished me either to return to my husband or to go back to my parents and do penance, but this I did not want to do. It seemed to me that all sinned against me, and I only was innocent. I had to live. And so I began to sing again, though with a broken heart. In a short time I had the world again lying at my feet, but, being so forsaken, I soon recognized its whole rottenness. How right my father was; I could not sin as I saw others around me doing. Therefore I had to suffer much till I could go on no longer. Since my health broke down, I cancelled my contract and betook myself to search for my son. I wanted to see him, at least once more, before I died. That is all."

"That is not everything," said Filina kindly with a smile as he rose. "The end will be only when the daughter returns, first to her heavenly, and then also to her earthly father. He that received me, will surely receive you too. But now come and go to rest, and think how perhaps in a distant land your father is praying just now for you, and that the heavenly Father loved us so much that He gave His only Son for us. Goodnight!"

In a little while the stars shone down upon a quiet place while the people slept.



CHAPTER EIGHT

The doctor came the next day, just as Bacha Filina had expected him. He came in his coach as far as the sheepcotes, and before Ondrejko realized it, he carried away his mother, and also Bacha Filina. Before they went they arranged for Ondrejko to remain longer with Bacha, and he would go to his mother only for visits.

"Palko, take the boys," commanded Bacha, "and go with them somewhere in the woods where nobody will interfere, and pray that the Lord God may help us to successfully arrange for what we have before us."

So they prayed, and believed that the Lord Jesus heard them.

Late in the evening, Bacha returned. The boys were already asleep. In the morning he told them that everything that could be done yesterday was carried out successfully, but that there was another matter which would take about a week before they could know how it would turn out, so they must keep on praying.

And what a week it was! The boys never lived through another like it. Sometimes they were with Ondrejko at his mother's. Again she came to the sheepcotes, and when she remained till the evening she loved to spend the night in the wooden hut. Aunty used to return before the evening in the company of Petrik. He loved to do this, because he always got a very good supper there. Then Ondrejko slept with his mother. How beautiful that was! She sat on his bed, told him many good things, petted, and kissed him till he fell asleep. In the morning again, he woke her up early. He jumped from his bed, threw his arms around her neck and timidly kissed her beautiful lips. What beautiful moments these were! Ondrejko was allowed to accompany his mother even when Bacha Filina took her to show her all three sheepfolds. They walked together over the clearings, looked at the herds of sheep, and spoke with the herdsmen. She was so friendly and kind to them. On the other hand, this helped to improve her health. After such a walk she ate and slept very well. Ondrejko was glad that she liked Bacha Filina. He treated her very nicely, just like a lady, as if she were his own daughter. On Saturday Ondrejko went with his mother to the cottage. There he was to have dinner with her. Both of his comrades were invited for the afternoon, and with them, of course, came Dunaj and Fido, but the cat was not afraid of them, and when they saw this they let her alone.

The boy ran joyfully into the room, but on the doorstep he halted, because his beautiful mother sat at a table. In her hand she held a long letter ready for the mail, and she cried. Oh, how bitterly she cried! She was cheered up when he ran to her and began to hug and kiss her; she returned his kisses but did not stop crying. "Why do you cry so much, my mother?" he said sadly. "What is it about?"

"About myself, my loved one, because I am very bad."

Ondrejko would not admit that. To him, a mother seemed like an angel, but Palko had read only yesterday the saying: "THEY ALL HAVE SINNED AND COME SHORT OF THE GLORY OF GOD," and added that so long as one does not realize this and thinks himself good enough, the Lord Jesus cannot save him, because only sick ones need a doctor; and Bacha Filina had added that only the Holy Spirit can bring a soul to such conviction. It must be then, that the Holy Spirit had begun to teach his mother also. Surely the Lord Jesus would soon find her!

"Why do you think, mother, that you are bad?" the boy timidly asked.

"Because I have a very good father, and have grieved him very much. Look, Ondrejko; I have written now for the first time in many years."

"And surely you have asked his forgiveness? Have you not?"

"Yes, I did; but is it possible to forgive such a sinner?"

"The father forgave his prodigal son because he loved him," the boy said seriously. "Did your father love you also, my mother?"

The lady sighed sadly, but did not cry any more.

"He would surely receive you if you would return home."

"I will see if he will answer me, and what he will say."

"Mother, was not your father my grandfather?"

"Yes, my darling; and if the good Lord grant that I may be able to count you all my own, and you will be only mine, then we will go together, and you will help me to ask him. He will surely not refuse you; you will understand one another better, because you both love the Lord Jesus and you are His sheep."

The boy rejoiced. The grandfather loved the Lord Jesus! "How glad I am! Oh, then he will surely forgive you."

They could not continue their talk because Aunty Moravec called them to dinner, which was very good. Joe came after dinner; he was carrying cheese to town and stopped to ask if there was anything to be mailed. The lady gave him her letter, and Aunty a slip and money to buy various things at the stores, with a big piece of cake to eat on the way. From the lady he received money to buy cherries for himself and the boys, if there were any good ones.

That afternoon it was quite jolly in and about the cottage when the comrades came. Ondrejko was glad that his mother was so joyful. She taught them all kinds of nice games. She even went with them on the "Old Hag's Rock," and there Palko had to tell her also how he found his Sunshine Country. That interested her very much. He recalled twice, how he was lost as a small child and grew up with strange people, and how the Lord Jesus took care that he came again to his parents. A whole book could be written about how he fared in the world.[A] Madame Slavkovsky was very much interested in that. When they later walked to the sheepcotes, all along the way she asked about Palko's mother, who in her sorrow for the lost boy also lost her reason till she finally found him and the Lord Jesus returned her son to her. They did not realize how quickly they came to the huts.

[Footnote A: See the first part of "The Sunshine Country."]

It was a beautiful evening; the sunset covered the sky with its rosy curtains. The sun sank behind the mountains, and as if in parting kissed the valleys and the people, and especially seemed to kiss the beautiful lady who sat by the open fire in deep thought.

"If you can sing so beautifully," begged Palko, "and many people went to hear you, we also would like you to do so. Sing for us, if you please."

"Oh, Palko." The lady shook her head. "You wouldn't like my song. Besides you wouldn't understand me. I sang mostly in English, Italian, but also in Czech, but the text of these songs would not fit in with this sacred evening closing around us. But because I would like to reward you, Palko, for so beautifully relating your experiences, let me just think a moment."

They waited; and it was so quiet around them that they could almost hear one another breathe; and in the distance the bells of the flocks tinkled.

Finally, she lifted her head. "After all, I remember something, and it is in the Slovak language. Once I learned this song about the sea, and when I sang it, thousands of people wept. It is a ballad about a shipwrecked vessel. Would you like to have me sing it?"

"Yes, yes," they all cried. Bacha had just arrived and sat among them. What a beautiful thing it is when the Creator puts such a voice in the human throat that no bird or instrument can equal it! You can hear everything in such a voice: the ringing of gold and silver, the moaning in the tops of the pines when they move in the wind; the babbling of the brooks as well as the roar of a great cataract—yes, everything!

"Master, the tempest is raging! The billows are tossing high! The sky is o'ershadowed with blackness, No shelter or help is nigh;

"Carest Thou not that we perish? How canst Thou lie asleep, When each moment so madly is threat'ning A grave in the angry deep?"

Sweetly, yet mysteriously and sadly, the notes of the song floated on the evening breeze down to the valley. Once, when the lady tried the song for the first time, thousands of people cried. Today only a small company of listeners cried, but I think that even the woods and the brooks and everything round wept also. Above all of them wept Bacha Filina. Palko who sat next to him laid his arm around his neck and cried with him. He understood him. Thus perished once the ship that carried Stephen. It sank in the terrible depths with him. In vain they waited, in vain they called. Uncle Filina would never see him again.

The boys did not dream, nor the helpers of Bacha, that anything existed as beautiful as that which was hidden in the lady's throat. You could almost hear the crashings of the breaking ship, and feel the hopelessness of the situation. It ended like sad, soft wailings of the perishing ones. The lady noticed the weeping her song had awakened. She realized that it would not be easy to stop it. Then she did something which that very morning she would have been in doubt that she would be able to do. She sang a song hidden in her memory from her old home, and which she had hated with her whole heart, because she could not forget it.

"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!

"May Thy rich grace impart Strength to my fainting heart, My zeal inspire! As Thou hast died for me, Oh, may my love to Thee, Pure, warm, and changeless be, A living fire!

"While life's dark maze I tread, And griefs around me spread, Be Thou my guide; Bid darkness turn to day, Wipe sorrow's tears away, Nor let me ever stray From Thee aside.

"When ends life's transient dream, When death's cold, sullen stream Shall o'er me roll; Blest Saviour, then, in love, Fear and distrust remove; Oh, bear me safe above, A ransomed soul!"

Perhaps nowhere and never before, were those beautiful lines sung so impressively. When she stopped, Bacha Filina stood near her and very seriously said, "Thank you, Madame Slavkovsky, for that precious song. You have shown me great kindness thereby. Your beautiful ballad opened a deep wound in my heart which was not quite healed. It almost seemed that I must die because of it, but this holy song healed it again. God bless you for it! But one thing I must ask you: let us write this song down, and you must teach us the melody that we may cheer ourselves with it in life and death."

The lady promised, but asked that they might now read the Word of God, as she felt tired. They did this very gladly, and in a little while a wonderful quietness reigned.

"Listen, Steve," said Joe to his comrade; "In the castle they said that when the lady went home after singing in the theatre that gentlemen unhitched the horses from her carriage, and hitched themselves to it and thus drew her along. I am not surprised. Really, when she sings, she can do anything with a person."



CHAPTER NINE

On Sunday morning the doctor brought some papers. They all had met at breakfast in the hut. When the lady read the letters, she folded Ondrejko in her arms, and half-crying and half-laughing said, "My dear son, now you may really say, 'our woods,' 'our sheep,' because I have bought it all for you, my Ondrejko, and all this ground. Only I don't know if I dare say: 'Our Bacha Filina.' I cannot, if it were not for you. He himself must decide if he will stay with us. Do tell him that he must stay."

"Do not ask, Ondrejko," smiled Bacha. "If you are at all satisfied with me—yes, if you are satisfied with all of us—we all will be glad to stay; isn't it so, boys?"

"Surely we will be very glad to stay," answered the herdsmen.

Soon it was known at all three sheepfolds that Madame Slavkovsky had bought Lord Gemer's estate and that she would deed it to Ondrejko if Lord Gemer would give up her son to her. No one doubted that he would do this, and since the present manager gave notice to leave, because he had been called to manage a different estate, the lady hoped that she would find some other responsible man. She promised everyone a raise in wages as soon as the change of ownership of the estate was recorded and improvements made. Everybody rejoiced. It almost seemed that even the sheep knew that Ondrejko had become their master. It was lovely how they rang their bells.

Over the sheepcotes every once in a while sounded the song which they called the lady's: "My faith looks up to Thee, Thou Lamb of Calvary." The boys taught it to everybody who wanted to learn it, and what Slovak would not like to learn a new song? When Aunty Moravec noticed how they all liked it, she confided to Palko that she still had a whole book of such songs from America. Thereupon, Ondrejko begged his mother to sing one of them once in a while. She made no excuses. Every day she taught them a new one, each more beautiful than those before. They did not realize that she taught them the very songs from which she ran away in the home of her parents, and which she would neither hear nor sing there. Bacha permitted the herders from the other sheepcotes to come over to his hut. They loved to come for those songs. They had good voices, clear as the evening bells. The lady even taught them to sing one in four parts. When Sunday came, they practised the whole afternoon, and sang in the evening, so that it sounded over the mountains like a beautiful melody.

That Sunday Palko read and explained how the Lord came from Nazareth to live in Capernaum, since they did not want Him in Nazareth, and that even today the Lord Jesus did not want to compel anybody, even as He had not compelled those in Nazareth, but went away and left them forever. Then he begged everybody not to send the Lord Jesus away, but permit Him to live with them. "It would be very sad if our sheepcotes would be like those of Nazareth, and if He had to forsake us and go farther on to Capernaum. Where He is, there is heaven and there is life. He heals every sickness. Just notice how many people He healed in Capernaum. But where He is not, there is darkness, just as in that song it says: 'Oh, there is no more salvation.'"

With serious thoughts they all departed to their rest. Ondrejko slept very soundly, but in spite of that it seemed to him that he heard his mother crying. In the morning he saw from her eyes that she had not slept very much. He dared not wake her up. So he stole out on tiptoe with his suit and dressed outside.

Once when Joe brought things from the city and Aunty Moravec gave him a good meal, he began to praise his new lady and asked sincerely, "But why did Lord de Gemer part with her? He will not find another like her in the world."

"He did not part with her, but she parted with him," said the old nurse with clouded face. "He is a bad, unfaithful man. The poor woman loved him so much and believed everything. When she took him, she had much money; and he just lived on her money and wasted it. He played cards and did all kinds of evil things. By the time we came to Budapest she was robbed of everything. He wanted her to continue to sing there. She had beautiful jewels; he told her he would deposit them in a bank, but he pawned them, because at the horse-races he had lost a big bet and needed much money. When he said that I warned her not to let everything go out of her power, through false accusation he separated me from her, accusing me of causing trouble between them. When there was no one else to defend her and she was robbed of everything, they began to look down upon her—his mother, his sisters, and he himself. She was born in America; there they treat women differently. In spite of it she suffered a whole year because she loved him very much. Once she saw her jewelry on another lady, and asked where she had bought them. Thus she found out that they were pawned and had been sold for the charges on them. There were many evil-minded people around her; they opened her eyes after that to what kind of a husband she had, how he fooled and robbed her, that he loved only her money. That was most insulting to her. Not an hour more would she stay with him under the same roof. She got together the last things she had—above all her little son—and went to Vienna. There I found her dangerously sick. She asked her husband to send her her things, for she was sick. He again asked for the boy but she would not give him up. In order that they might not take him away, I, myself, took him to northern Bohemia, to my own family, where it was well with him. In the meantime the lawsuit ended, and they took him away from her because he was assigned to his father. Because she did not give the boy up at once, he sent her, from her clothing and laundry, only what was old and shabby. His relatives divided her beautiful, valuable garments among themselves. Thus they dealt with her because nobody would protect her. In those hard days, her uncle from America, who had arranged for her training in singing, helped her. Thus she could pay for the upkeep of the boy, and we went first to Berlin, then to Rome and Paris. She sang to make her living, but also that she might regain the honor of which Lord Gemer wanted to rob her, when he had parted with her and had told all kinds of evil about her, which he could not prove. Later we went to England, and finally to Russia. There she fared the best. There she might have become a rich princess, but she would not look at any man again. How glad the gentlemen there would have been if she would have spoken to them as kindly as she speaks here with you. But the purer the life she led, the more they bothered her, and the more she did not want to live. She said she wanted to see her boy once more before she died. For a long time we could not find out where the boy was. Finally, she got sick on the railroad, and by God's direction Dr. H. helped her. From him she learned all the truth, and after that he brought her here. And now you know why she left the Lord de Gemer."

"That robber, that gypsy, that deceiver, how he fooled and robbed her! If one of us steals a chicken or the like he is put at once behind the bars. Such a gentleman can do everything, but if she would just go to law he would have to return her everything," said Joe angrily.

"Yes, he would have to, but she doesn't want to. She is not concerned about mammon. All she wants is to have peace from him forever. But that he should not make any trouble about the child, I wrote to our lawyer who was to make the arrangements for her, to threaten him with a lawsuit for the jewelry and money if he would not give up the boy willingly. My lady will never know what I did. Our lawyer is a good friend, and a decent and honest man, not such an one as we had before."

That Joe did not keep this news to himself is true. Thus Filina's helpers found out what kind of a master they had only after he ceased to be their lord. To the last one all took the lady's part. All were sorry for her and wished her to have the record very soon in black and white, that the boy was hers only, and the father had no more claims on him. Everyone greeted her very respectfully wherever they met her. She walked sadly and in deep contemplation. Only among the boys was she cheerful.

In the sheepcotes also they were once in a while in sad contemplation. They counted the days before Lesina would come for Palko and take him away. When Ondrejko with tears in his eyes confided this to his mother, her cheeks turned pale with fright. It had never occurred to her that Palko would leave, and she could not even imagine those surroundings without him. One day he accompanied her to the cottage. She had promised him a nice song; he had come in to get it.

"Palko, do you want to go away from us?" she began suddenly, and took the boy by the hand.

"Verily, even next week my father is coming," he said seriously. "Then we will have about five days' more work with the timber, and then we shall leave."

"But you will be glad to go home; will you not?"

"Really very glad," he confessed sincerely. "Since I have not seen my mother for weeks, nor grandfather nor grandmother and all, nor have they seen me. They will be glad when I come, and I more than they all, because we all will be together again."

"And will you not be sorry for your comrades? They will miss you sadly."

"Yes, indeed; I will be very lonesome without them and Uncle Filina. I love him very much, like my old pastor Malina. I am thankful to the Lord Jesus that Uncle is healthy and will not yet die, but will tell his helpers about the Lord Jesus, and everybody else. Only one thing worries me; it is that when I go away, I shall not find out what you, lady, will do with the Lord Jesus. You taught us such beautiful songs; till my death I shall be thankful to you for them. You have sung so beautifully for us, like an angel from heaven; but you do not believe what you have been singing. I am sorry for that, and the Lord Jesus is sorry also. Yesterday you taught us the song:

"Safe in the arms of Jesus, Safe on His gentle breast, There by His love o'ershadowed, Safely my soul shall rest."

"It would fit you so beautifully if you would give yourself in His hands just as the shepherd carries the lost sheep. It would be so good for you in His arms; I know that best of all. While here among you, more than once homesickness for my mother threatened to overcome me; but when I considered that He is with me, it was well with me at once, and I was right at home. You have met already much evil in the world and more than once you were sad, were you not? But He would console you. However, if you would let Him go away like the people of Nazareth, He will go on, but you would remain alone. Ondrejko told me that you have a very good father, that your father already belongs to the Lord Jesus. Ondrejko belongs to Him also; sometime they both will go to Him, and you will be left alone," and Palko broke out crying.

"Do not cry," said the lady in a peculiar voice. "I don't want to be like the people at Nazareth. I would like to go on that narrow path, but I cannot find it. I am too full of sin for God to receive me. So long as my earthly father does not forgive me, I cannot seek the face of God."

Their talk was broken off when they came to the bench, because Aunty Moravec came to meet them, all pale, "A special messenger brought a telegram. Please sign here."

The lady's knees began to tremble. She sat on the bench, signed the paper, and handed it to Aunty, then quickly she opened the telegram and read. Dark spots formed before her eyes. Unable to see, she handed the telegram to the boy. "Palko, read me that," and Palko read:

"New York. I am embarking. Coming to see you. Your loving father."

"Is it really so, Palko?"

"It is."

"Oh, my father, my father! He is coming to us. He still loves and forgives. Palko, pray for me, for something will happen to me," bitterly crying, the lady fell on her knees.

Palko prayed, "Thank Thee, Lord Jesus, that her father is coming, that he has forgiven her, though he is still far away, yet Thou art here. If she will just ask Thee, Thou wilt forgive her, because Thou dost love her so much, I know. Amen."

Life and death is in the power of the tongue. In the words of Palko there was life. The lady believed that the Good Shepherd was really there, that He came to meet her. Once she had run away from Him; today she did not want to run away. Today she confessed her transgressions to Him. She knew well that it was against Him she had sinned most, that she had gone from Him, to her own destruction. She had despised Him when He had stretched out His pierced hands to her, though they had been nailed on the cross for her sake. She had not wanted to sing to His honor and glory; and had hated the songs of the Lamb. She had wanted to sing for the people and had—but they had repaid her by breaking her heart. But He, whom she despised, had followed her here. She had not wanted to hear famous preachers; but He had sent a child along her path that he might lead her to the feet of the Good Shepherd. The Good Shepherd did not despise her; at last He had received her. Palko did not understand what the lady prayed, for she prayed in English, but he understood the tone. The Lord Jesus was with her and she knew it and talked with Him. Palko rose silently and respectfully, and left the place which now belonged to the lady and the Good Shepherd.



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!

—THE END—