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 The handsome young lord greeted the old man and his sons and they bowed and scraped and pressed their hats under their arms tighter and tighter.

Then they all stepped into the old kitchen that was black with the smoke of many years and the handsome young lord sat down on the bench behind the table as though that was where he always sat. The two brothers and their brides shrank back against the oven and held their breath.

Then the handsome young lord said to the old man: “Don’t you know me?”

“Where could I ever have seen your lordship?” the farmer asked, humbly. He kept bobbing so low it was a wonder he didn’t bump his head against the floor.

“And do neither of your sons know me? I think these are your sons, aren’t they?”

The farmer kept on bowing and the two sons looked down, too embarrassed to speak.

At length the handsome young lord said: “What, don’t you know your own son, Kubik, whom you used to beat for stealing when he showed you his betrothal gifts?”

At that the old man looked at him closely and cried out: “Bless my soul, I believe it is our Kubik!