at it when going off to sleep! And, in the morning when he woke up it was completely different—nothing but knots, dampness and dust.
The old man smiled. “Does it taste good? Ah, at last it’s boiling!” He bent over the kettle, raised it with an effort and limped off to the cart. Ina moment he was back with a couple of mugs. “Just hold it a minute.” Prokop took one of the mugs; on it was painted in gold the name “Ludmila,” surrounded with a garland of forget-me-nots. He read the name twenty times and tears came into his eyes. “Grandfather,” he whispered, “is . . . that . . . her name?”
The old man looked at him with sad, tender eyes. “So that you know,” he said softly, “it is.”
“And . . . shall I never find her?”
The old man said nothing but only blinked rapidly. “Hold it out,” he said uncertainly, “I’ll give you some tea.”
Prokop held out the mug with a trembling hand and the old man carefully poured into it some strong tea. “Drink it while it’s warm,” he said gently.
“Th—thank you,” sobbed Prokop and took a sip of the sharp-tasting drink.
The old man stroked his long hair reflectively. “It’s bitter,” he said slowly, “it’s bitter, isn’t it? Wouldn’t you like a bit of sugar?”
Prokop shook his head. He felt the bitter taste of tears, but his breast was filled with a generous warmth.
The old man sipped at his mug noisily. “And now look,” he said, so as to make things easier, “what I’ve got painted on mine.” He handed him
