gentlest man--he was not like us--he was not
hot-tempered--What is God's will?"

The gardener felt that he was not wanted, so, after exhorting the widow
to be calm and to come to him if she needed advice or help, he went
away. She had nodded and, without turning her head, called after him
again: "God will repay you!"

When left alone, Panna carefully dried the dead man's face, placed
under his head a pillow which she took from the bed, kissed his poor,
ugly face,--sobbing meanwhile from the very depths of her heart,--and
covered it with a gay little silk kerchief which he had brought to her
from the last fair. Then she hurriedly made some changes in her own
dress and left the house, whose door she locked behind her.

Without looking round, she walked rapidly to the field where she knew
that her father was working, which she reached in a quarter of an hour.
He was toiling with other day-labourers in a potato-patch, pulling the
ripe roots out of the ground, and when she came up was stooping over
his work. He did not notice his daughter until she was standing by his
side and touched him lightly on the shoulder with her finger.

Then he straightened himself, exclaiming in great astonishment:

"Panna! What is the matter?"

A glance at her made him start violently, and he added in a subdued
voice:

"A misfortune? Another misfortune?"

Panna did not reply, but grasped his arm and, with long, swift strides,
led him far beyond the range of hearing of the other workmen. When
they had reached the edge of the field, she said softly:

"Father, Herr von Abonyi has just shot my Pista out of sheer
wantonness, like a mad-dog."

The old peasant staggered back several paces as if he had been hit on
the head with a club. Then his face, whose muscles had contracted till
it resembled a horrible mask, flushed scarlet, he uttered a tremendous
oath, and made a sudden movement as though to hurry away.

But Panna was again at his side, holding him fast.

"What are you going to do, Father?"

"There--the hoe--the dog must die--he must be killed--now--at
once--I'll run in--I'll split his head--die--the dog," he panted,
trying to wrench himself from his daughter's strong grasp.

The latter held him still more firmly.

"No, Father," she said, "try to be calm. I am quiet. Rage has never
been a good counsellor to us. I thought you would take it so, and
therefore I wanted to tell you myself, before you heard it from others."