And from the voice one could tell that the second was an old man. Lipa stopped and said:

“God help you.”

The old man went up to her and answered not immediately:

“Good evening!”

“Your dog does not bite, grandfather?”

“No, come along, he won’t touch you.”

“I have been at the hospital,” said Lipa after a pause. “My little son died there. Here I am carrying him home.”

It must have been unpleasant for the old man to hear this, for he moved away and said hurriedly:

“Never mind, my dear. It’s God’s will. You are very slow, lad,” he added, addressing his companion; “look alive!”

“Your yoke’s nowhere,” said the young man; “it is not to be seen.”

“You are a regular Vavila.”

The old man picked up an ember, blew on it⁠—only his eyes and nose were lighted up⁠—then, when they had found the yoke, he went with the light to Lipa and looked at her, and his look expressed compassion and tenderness.

“You are a mother,” he said; “every mother grieves for her child.”

And he sighed and shook his head as he said it. Vavila threw something on the fire, stamped on it⁠—and at once it was very dark; the vision vanished, and as before there were only the fields, the sky with the stars, and the noise of the birds hindering each other from sleep. And the landrail called, it seemed, in the very place where the fire had been.

But a minute passed, and again she could see the two carts and the old man and lanky Vavila. The carts creaked as they went out on the road.