the priest rich?" he asked.

"Very rich," answered Mrs. Szliminszky.

He drew nearer to her, and suddenly seized hold of her hand, pressing it
convulsively. The good lady could not make out why. (If he had done so a
minute sooner, she could have understood it, but the candles were alight
now!)

"He found something in the umbrella, did he not?" he asked, panting.

Mrs. Szliminszky shrugged her white shoulders, half visible through the
lace insertion of her dress.

"Why, what could he find in an umbrella? It is not a box, nor an iron
case. But for the last fourteen years people have come from great
distances to be married under the umbrella, and they pay generously for
it. And then when a rich person is dying anywhere beyond the Bjela Voda,
from the Szitnya right as far as Krivan, they send for the priest of
Glogova to hear their confession, and after their death, to bury them
under the umbrella."

Veronica, to whom the mayor's wife had been showing the embroidered
table-cloth, calling her attention to the fineness of the linen, now
caught a few words of the conversation.

"Are you speaking of our umbrella?" she asked amiably, leaning toward
them.

Gyuri and Mrs. Szliminszky started.

"Yes, my dear," answered the latter, slightly confused.

Gyuri smiled mischievously.

"I see," said Veronica, "you don't believe the story."

"No, I do not."

"Really?" asked the girl reproachfully; "and why?"

"Because I never believe nonsense, and because ..."

He had nearly said too much, but he kept back the words that rose to his
lips when he saw how wounded the girl appeared at his incredulity. She
smiled, turned her head away, and gazed silently at her plate. Gyuri was
silent too, though he felt inclined to cry out:

"I am rich at last, for in the handle of that umbrella there are unknown
treasures."

It is remarkable that if good luck befalls a man, his first wish (for he
still has wishes, even if they are all fulfilled) is to communicate it
to others; he would like trumpets sounded, heralds to be sent round to
announce it to the whole world. But then comes doubt, the everlasting
"perhaps." And so it was with Gyuri.

"What is the umbrella like, Miss Veronica?" he asked.

Veronica closed her lips firmly, as though she considered it unnecessary
to answer him, then thought better of it, and said:

"It is not much to look at; it is of faded red stuff, looks a thousand
years old, and is patched all over."

"Wi