“Who knows? Tales of all sorts get told about us women, and we have to answer for them all,” said the old woman. “They had some row about their labourer. … The man was a good fellow from our village. He died afterwards at their house.”
“He died?” asked Kornéy, and cleared his throat.
“Died long ago. From them we took my daughter-in-law. They were well off. When the husband was alive they were the richest folk in the village.”
“And what became of him?” asked Kornéy.
“He died, too, I suppose. He disappeared at the time—some fifteen years ago now.”
“It must be more. Mother used to tell me she had not long weaned me when it happened.”
“And don’t you bear a grudge against him, because of your arm?” began Kornéy—with a sob.
“No! Wasn’t he my father? It’s not as if some stranger had done it. … Have another cup, after being so cold. Shall I pour it out for you?”
Kornéy did not reply, but burst into tears and sobs.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s nothing—nothing. May Christ reward you!”
And with trembling hands Kornéy took hold of the bunk and the post supporting it, and with his long thin legs climbed on to the oven.
“There, now!” said the old housewife to her son, making a sign in the direction of their visitor.