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 In bringing up children, we forget old age and the grave. And what is there that can better or more agreeably season life, which in itself is often insipid enough?

Cvok had not been in the habit of going much anywhere; he went out still less now; and yet the days passed with him as quickly as the summer with an old man, or a dance to a pair of lovers. He had not been at Suchdol since Pepíc̓ek was brought to his house, and if his ears had reason to be hot, he did not think that just in that quarter much was said about him.

Some days after Naninka had found Jenny’s little son under the hazel bush in the garden, the bricklayer’s wife of Záluz̓í went on some errand to Suchdol. Spinster Regina met her, and brought her into the house to have a little talk with her. She had heard some reports about Heavens, and was very curious to hear the whole truth.

“Sit down, my dear—sit down. What news from your parts?”

The bricklayer’s wife put down her back-basket under bench near the kitchen door, and sat down. Then wiping her mouth with her apron, as if to make it ready for a fine gossip, she replied—

“Oh, news enough; a pair of horses could hardly carry it all. Father Cvok’s house is like as if it didn’t belong to a priest any more.”

“You don’t say so! What dreadful thing can have happened?”

“Don’t you know anything about it, Miss Regina? Haven’t you heard anything?”

“Nothing whatever, my good woman—or, at least, next to nothing. Where do I go? Nowhere. Wait a