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 “Haven’t I always shown respect for you as the master of the place, even though you are the son and I the father? You are master of all here except of my little reserve plot,” he uttered the last words with distinct empbasis as if he were treading on a loud pedal for each syllable, “and what you command, shall be done. May it all be worthy!”

“And don’t I look after the homestead as well as can be done? Haven’t I grubbed out of this dry soil every bit that it possibly could be lashed into giving? And won’t I give you all that is written down in the contract?” the son struck out at his father.

“Don’t scold me that way. I don’t want any quarrels. I say, not an egg nor a liter of milk have you or Apolena cheated me out of.—May God repay her for it! And you labor and save all honor to you both!” gravely spoke the aged man.

“Well, then what’s the matter?” violently hurled back the son, adding quickly, “And all this toiling—what’s it all for? You can’t make a living on it. It will sooner raise thorns and weeds than grain enough for a loaf of bread, without even speaking of koláče. So, what to do with it?”

“May God not punish you for those hard words,” cried the father in deep grief. “Honestly has this