Next day Kornéy was the first to rise. He climbed down from the top of the oven, rubbed his dried and stiffened leg-bands, painfully drew on his mud-clogged boots, and slung the wallet on to his back.
“Why, daddy, you’d better have some breakfast,” said the old housewife.
“The Lord bless you! … I’ll be going.”
“Well, then, at least take some of yesterday’s cakes with you. I’ll put them into your wallet.”
Kornéy thanked her, and took his leave.
“Call in when you return. If we are still alive …”
Outside everything was wrapped in dense autumn fog, but Kornéy knew the way well; he knew every descent and ascent, every bush, and all the willows along the road, right and left—though during the last seventeen years some had been cut down and from old had become young again, while others that had been young had grown old.
The village of Gáyi was still the same, though some new houses had been built at the end, where none stood before; and some of the wooden houses had been replaced by brick ones. His own brick house had not changed except to grow older. The iron roof had long needed repainting, some bricks had been knocked away at one corner, and the porch leaned to one side.
As he approached the house that had been his, the gates creaked, and out came a mare with its foal, a roan gelding, and a two-year-old colt. The old roan was just like the mare Kornéy had bought at the fair the year before he left home.