ied and only Stephen
Slavkovsky remained. I could not return home and live with you, as our
father planned. Eva was your wife and I loved her. I did not really
know God and the Lord Jesus then, nor understood His Holy Law; but
this much I knew, that it would have been a constant and a great
temptation for us all. Thus, I chose to die to you."

Slavkovsky finished, and out of Bacha's breast came a deep sigh. "You
died for us, and until recently I worried very much about it, that I
had become a murderer and was like Cain."

"You? And why?"

"Did I not drown you the second time in that swamp, by driving you to
America? Eva loved you more. Had it not been for me, you could have
lived as happily as in Paradise. You would have been mated much
better. At my side, she perished of sorrow. My father did not live
long; I took care of mother, but could not replace her son to her. See
yonder the burnt remains of our hut, where we once lived so happily.
Years ago, when I took up this service which I have held ever since, I
rented it to a neighbor. He did not take good care and it burned down.
I could, but would not rebuild it. What would it have been good for to
me? I was forsaken in the world, like a stick."

Sudden quietness prevailed on the step at the foot of the cross, where
both men sat. It seemed that the popular song could be applied to
them:

"Mountain, green mountain, Ahoy!
My heart is hurting, sadly I cry!
Painful, so painful is my woe,
My heart is fainting, my joy is gone."

"Forgive me, Peter," suddenly said Stephen Slavkovsky. "It was not
right that I hid myself from you. I have caused you much sorrow. While
I imagined that you were living with Eva in our mountains, which I
never could forget, perhaps surrounded with children, and our parents
were happy with you--you have lived alone for years. It was not good
that I did not let you know about myself. Once some one from this
neighborhood came to America but did not know me and told me that
father died. I had already written a letter to mother, to send her my
love, but I did not send it. I thought how good I was to you, but that
heart of ours is deceitful and perverse, full of self-righteousness
and pride. I have done wrong both to mother and to you, but I was
repaid when my only child forsook me, and after ten years I must come
as far as here to find her."

Bacha roused himself, "Come, Stephen, let us delay no longer; but if
we go on foot we shall