ther Fromm called
to the cabman:

"To the house of Balnokhazy!"

He knew well that we must go there now. During the whole journey there
we did not exchange a single word: what could those two have said to me?

When we stopped before Balnokhazy's residence, it seemed to me, my
mother was endowed with a quite youthful strength; she went before us,
her face burning, her step elastic, her head carried on high.

I don't know whether it was our good fortune, or whether my parents'
arrival had been announced previously, but the P. C. was at home, when
we came to look for him.

I was curious to see with what countenance he would receive us.

I knew already much about him, that I ought never to have known.

As we stepped into his room, he came to meet us, with more courtesy than
pleasure apparent on his countenance. Some kind of displeasure strove to
display itself thereon, but it was just as if he had studied the
expression for hours in the mirror; it seemed to be an artificial,
affected, calculated displeasure.

Mother straightway hastened to him, and taking both his hands,
impetuously introduced the conversation with these words:

"Where is my son Lorand?"

My right honorable uncle shrugged his shoulders, and with gracious mien
answered this mother's passionate outburst:

"My dear lady cousin, it is I who ought to urge that question; for it is
my duty to prosecute your son. And if I answer that I do not know where
he is, I think thereby I shall display the most kinsmanlike feeling."

"Why prosecute my son?" said mother, tremblingly. "Is it possible to
eternally ruin anyone for a mere schoolboy escapade?"

"Not one but many 'schoolboy escapades' justify me in my action: it is
not merely in my official capacity that I am bound to prosecute him."

As he said this, Balnokhazy fixed his eyes sharply upon me: I did not
wince before him. I knew I had the right and the power to withstand his
gaze. Soon my turn would come.

"What?" asked mother. "What reason could you have to prosecute him?"

Balnokhazy shrugged his shoulders more than ever, bitterly smiling.

"I scarcely know, in truth, how to tell you this story, if you don't
know already. I thought you were acquainted with all the facts. He who
told you the news of the young man's disappearance, wrote to you also
the reasons for it."

"Yes," said mother, "I know all. The misfortune is great: but there is
no ignominy."

"Indeed?" interrupted Balnokhazy, drawin