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 cheese for Barka. If on Sunday Barka received a muffin at the peasant’s, she at once put it aside for Matýsek. As soon as Matýsek had washed his wooden spoon after dinner, he threw off his linen blouse and put on the red vest he had inherited from his father, and over it he drew the blue jacket which was so displeasing to the girls.

Barely had Barka finished milking after dinner when she slipped on her starched skirt, placed one of her wool kerchiefs on her head, another around her neck and went to meet Matýsek.

She knew to a hair when he would come, although they never made a definite arrangement. He, in turn, not only knew well that she would come, but just in what spot among the trees he would first see her.

“You wouldn’t go to meet any other man, would you?” he used to ask after they met.

“Not for seven golden castles,” Barka assured him.

It was really remarkable how devoted they were. Never had a youth or maid cared for each other as did those two who seemed to have but one soul in common.

When it was cold or rainy, they sat down beside each other in the stable. When it was bright and sunny, they seated themselves somewhere on the boundary stones. He reached into his pocket and drew out the cheese neatly wrapped in a large walnut leaf, while she unfolded her fresh white handkerchief and gave him the mutfin. They ate and sunned themselves, but if it happened to be warm, they took a little