e awkward, ungainly way it had done on account of
its enormous size, it began to move in a more stately manner; in fact,
its life had been saved by the loss of another. God in His wisdom by
taking one life often saves another, for, believe me, senseless beings
are entered in His book as well as sensible ones, and He takes as much
care of them as of kings and princes.

The wisdom of God is great, but that of the judge of Halap was not
trifling either. He ordered that after the funeral the little girl
(Veronica was her name) was to spend one day at every house in the
village in turns, and was to be looked after as one of the family.

"And how long is that to last?" asked one of the villagers.

"Until I deign to give orders to the contrary," answered the judge
shortly. And so things went on for ten days, until Mate Billeghi decided
to take his wheat to Besztercebanya to sell, for he had heard that the
Jews down that way were not yet so sharp as in the neighborhood of
Halap. This was a good chance for the judge.

"Well," he said, "if you take your wheat there, you may as well take the
child to her brother. Glogova must be somewhere that way."

"Not a bit of it," was the answer, "it is in a totally different
direction."

"It _must_ be down that way if I wish it," thundered out the judge.

Billeghi tried to get out of it, saying it was awkward for him, and out
of his way. But it was of no use, when the judge ordered a thing, it had
to be done. So one Wednesday they put the sacks of wheat into
Billeghi's cart, and on the top of them a basket containing Veronica and
the goose, for the latter was, of course, part of the priest's
inheritance. The good folks of the village had made shortbread and
biscuits for the little orphan to take with her on her journey out into
the great world, and they also filled a basket with pears and plums; and
as the cart drove off, many of them shed tears for the poor little waif,
who had no idea where they were taking her to, but only saw that when
the horses began to move, she still kept her place in the basket, and
only the houses and trees seemed to move.

CHAPTER II.

GLOGOVA AS IT USED TO BE.

Not only the worthy Kapiczany had seen Glogova, the writer of these
pages has also been there. It is a miserable little place in a narrow
valley between bare mountains. There is not a decent road for miles
around, much less a railway. Nowadays they say there is some sort of an
old-fashi