the depth of her soul poured forth fervent, whispered words of prayer.
She was praying for herself, her father, her dead mother, the kind lady, under whose roof she was living, Jiří, the old woman, her wretched companions, who were still weltering in the mire,—sympathy for everybody, love for everything flowed from her soul.
“Dear child, pray, forgive me,” were the gentle words which she heard. With gentle care, such as we use towards holy relics, the old lady spread strange, old-fashioned garments upon the table and the couch. The perfume of lavender issued from the folds of those raiments. In those colors, ribbons, and frills breathed the forties,—bygone pleasures, bygone beauty, bygone people, a bygone life. . . .
“Now this one here I had on as I went with my dear departed husband to the wedding of Jiří’s father.” The old lady handed her a green silk garment which glistened with a reddish-golden sheen.
