who, she said, was pursuing her with his great key.
For many days her life was in danger; but she was young and strong, and the death which she had hoped for, and which Filip told himself would be best for both of them, did not come.
Filip watched Magda unremittingly during those days and nights when her life hung in the balance. He seemed to have forgotten, or to have laid aside, all his anger against her. "I only do it because she is ill, and does not know me," he said to himself sometimes, as though to excuse in his own eyes the weakness which prompted him to bathe her forehead with assiduous care, or put her pillows to rights; and by degrees, as the danger passed and she recovered her consciousness, in the same proportion did his face become stern and his words cold and hard again.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BLACK COW AND THE OLD WOMAN.
"Virtue returns into vice,
And honor into avarice;
With covetyce is conscience slain —
All earthly joy returns in pain."
Dunbar.
At last one morning Filip said to Magda, "Magda, do you think vou can get up yet?"
"Yes," she said; "I feel quite strong;" and she made an effort to rise, but her trembling limbs and her ashy face belied her words, and she sank back on her bed.
"No, not today," said Filip; "but to-morrow or next day, when you are quite well, I shall take you to your brother's house;" he paused, as though he expected an answer, but none came. "You understand, of course, that after what has happened I cannot keep you and—this—this—child in my house?" he paused again. "You understand me, Magda?"
"I understand."
No more words passed between them on this subject. Perhaps he had expected tears and prayers, and had been prepared to resist all such supplication. If so, he was spared this trial.
Two days later the cart was harnessed with the two meagre konikis (peasant horses). Magda, holding her baby, got in. Filip took the reins, and drove them up hill and down dale for many a weary hour.
It was a long and fatiguing drive, and it was passed in silence. Magda leant back apathetically against the straw bundles which formed her seat; the baby slumbered peacefully, only now and then waking up and claiming its natural nourishment as loudly and imperiously as though all the blood of all the Howards ran in its veins, and there had never been a mistake at all about the color of its hair.
Late in the afternoon they reached the distant village where Magda's brother dwelt.
He was but moderately pleased to see his sister, for in a poor household an additional mouth to feed is a serious consideration; and having five children of his own already, this newly arrived baby possessed little attraction.
"She can stay here," he said to Filip with a sort of grudging welcome. "Where else should she go, if you will not keep her?"
"But I cannot keep her, you know," said Filip. "How could I keep her after what has passed?"
Filip only stayed to rest his horses, and refusing all invitations to stop the night, he started back for home. As he drove along in the balmy May night, he told himself that he had done a very wise thing in sending away his wife. It was the best and wisest, — in fact, the only thing to be done. He repeated this over and over again, just as if some one had been contradicting him, or as if he had required to convince himself. The sight of Magda and of that child would have been a continual source of irritation to him. Now, at least, he would have nothing to disturb him: he would be able to work in peace at St. Peter and the gates, which had been so sadly neglected of late, but which were now approaching completion; and as for the children, why, they were now old enough to take care of themselves — in fact they would be a help rather than a hindrance to him. They were nearly eight years old; Kuba was sensible enough to herd the cow, and Kasza would soon learn to prepare the food.
"Kuba," he said to his son next day, "you will take the cow out to pasture in the forest, and see that she gets plenty grass to eat."
"Yes, father; I know where is the very best grass."
For a day or two all went well, and Kuba seemed to justify the confidence placed in him. He came back every evening with the cow, who chewed her cud in a remarkably contented manner, as though she had been particularly satisfied with the nourishment she had received. On the third day, however, Kuba came
