Page:Magdalen by J S Machar.pdf/111

 might think she would be the lady’s daughter, but she is not. I really do not know. They are together there”

“Very well, very well, that will do”

It was a large whitewashed room. A few chairs, a table, a large safe of dark oak with carved ornaments, were its only furniture. On the wall were hung oil paintings of Hus and Žižka; between them, on a pedestal, stood a statue of Poděbrad,—Jiří’s father had here passed the greater half of his life,—and those pictures and furniture were reminiscences of him.

The old lady was sitting with Lucy at the open window. Outside, in the shadow of the house, was a field of clover. Dandelions with their ducat hue burst everywhere through the dark verdure. Crickets were chirping merrily in the grass. Lucy was thoughtlessly holding a long, narrow book in old leather binding and gilt ornamentation. The old lady had found it for her. It was the faithful companion of her youth,—