of his big, sorrowful grey eyes.

'He wants to tell you about the dog, mother. They found it dead,' Anna
said, as she passed us on her way to the cupboard.

Antonia beckoned the boy to her. He stood by her chair, leaning his
elbows on her knees and twisting her apron strings in his slender
fingers, while he told her his story softly in Bohemian, and the tears
brimmed over and hung on his long lashes. His mother listened, spoke
soothingly to him and in a whisper promised him something that made him
give her a quick, teary smile. He slipped away and whispered his secret
to Nina, sitting close to her and talking behind his hand.

When Anna finished her work and had washed her hands, she came and stood
behind her mother's chair. 'Why don't we show Mr. Burden our new fruit
cave?' she asked.

We started off across the yard with the children at our heels. The boys
were standing by the windmill, talking about the dog; some of them ran
ahead to open the cellar door. When we descended, they all came down
after us, and seemed quite as proud of the cave as the girls were.

Ambrosch, the thoughtful-looking one who had directed me down by the
plum bushes, called my attention to the stout brick walls and the cement
floor. 'Yes, it is a good way from the house,' he admitted. 'But, you
see, in winter there are nearly always some of us around to come out and
get things.'

Anna and Yulka showed me three small barrels; one full of dill pickles,
one full of chopped pickles, and one full of pickled watermelon rinds.

'You wouldn't believe, Jim, what it takes to feed them all!' their
mother exclaimed. 'You ought to see the bread we bake on Wednesdays and
Saturdays! It's no wonder their poor papa can't get rich, he has to buy
so much sugar for us to preserve with. We have our own wheat ground for
flour--but then there's that much less to sell.'

Nina and Jan, and a little girl named Lucie, kept shyly pointing out to
me the shelves of glass jars. They said nothing, but, glancing at me,
traced on the glass with their finger-tips the outline of the cherries
and strawberries and crabapples within, trying by a blissful expression
of countenance to give me some idea of their deliciousness.

'Show him the spiced plums, mother. Americans don't have those,' said
one of the older boys. 'Mother uses them to make kolaches,' he added.

Leo, in a low voice, tossed off some scornful remark in Bohemian.

I turned to him. 'You think I don't know wha