nothing, nothing! Suddenly he came upon another letter written in the sprawling hand . . . a second . . . a third.
There were no more. The one which he had read first was the longest. The others were the more unlettered the older their date. Hron understood; as she made greater progress at school she was the more able to express her thoughts; her letters became longer, more legible, more appealing. From each of the four letters spoke the longing of this unknown child to see her mother, to be with her always. This incoherent babbling, these laboured sentences were the expression of a homesick child, praying for the fulfilment of its dearest wish.
Hron sat quite still and reflected painfully; his thoughts were like red-hot wires that penetrated his brain. ‘My Magda . . . my Magda!’ recurred over and over in his reflections, ‘and then this child, this second Magda. . . .’
He recalled the moment when he had seen Magda for the first time, remembered how he had wooed her and been refused, and finally accepted. What had happened between the moment when he had first met her and the day when he had at last taken her to his home?
