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 not fail to pause and ask them, “When, good people, do you intend to get married?”

“Oh, some day,” Barka dispatched the inquisitive one.

“It’s high time. You were courting when I was wooing my wife and now I have a son almost ready for marrying—”

“Well, everything doesn’t have to be done in a rush. What awaits a man will come to him of itself.”

“That’s all true, but a man must set some limit of time for doing everything.”

“Well, then, it will be when our masters mention it to us.”

“You’ll have a long wait!”

“Never mind! We’re not in any hurry just now.” Matýsek never answered such questions, but always remembered everyone who approached them in this matter. A hundred times such an inquirer might pass or call to him, but each time he would drop his eyes and pot lift them until the mocker was past.

How did Barka guess that whatever awaits a man will come to him of itself? Everything that they had ever wished for and which they had discussed on Sunday afternoons was fulfilled for them with the excep tion of one little point. Would anyone have said that such things are possible? Never!

Barka’s cousin who had never claimed relationship to her died. She had been a strange woman. She had but one danghter with whom she lived in great