. Don't waste words trying to console me, but
bring me pen and paper, I want to send a telegram to the boy; he must
come home at once. I'll wait for his arrival, yes, I'll wait till then."

They brought a table to his bed, and he wrote the following words:

"Come at once, uncle is dying and wants to give you something.--Mother."

"Send the servant with this at once."

He was very restless while the man was away, and asked three times if he
had returned. At length he came back, but with bad news; the telegraph
office was closed for the night.

"Well, it does not matter," said Anna, "we will send it in the morning.
The master is not really so bad, it is half imagination; but he is so
nervous we must not excite him, so go in and tell him the telegram is
sent."

He was quieter after that, and began to reckon at what time the boy
would arrive, and decided he might be there by the afternoon of the
second day.

He slept quietly all night, and got up the next morning very pale and
weak, but went about putting things straight and turning out drawers.

"It is unnecessary to send the telegram," thought Anna to herself. "He
seems nearly himself again, and will be all right in a day or two."

The whole day he pottered about, and in the afternoon shut himself up in
his study and drank a small bottle of Tokay wine, and wrote a great
deal. Anna only went in once to see if he wanted anything. No, he wanted
nothing.

"Have you any pain?"

"My side hurts me, just where the man with the scythe touched me. There
is something wrong inside."

"Does it hurt very much?"

"Yes, very much!"

"Shall I send for a doctor?"

"No."

In the evening he sent for his lawyer, Janos Sztolarik. He was quite
lively when he came, made him sit down, and sent for another bottle of
Tokay.

"The February vintage, Anna," he called after her.

The wine had been left him by his father, and dated from the year when
there had been two vintages in Tokay in twelve months, one in February,
and one in October. Only kings can drink the like of it. On account of
the mildness of the winter the vines had been left uncovered, had
flowered and borne fruit, so that in February they were able to have a
vintage, and you can imagine what a flavor those grapes had. There was
never anything like it before nor after. Old Gregorics's father used to
call it the "Life-giver," and often said:

"If a man intending to commit suicide were to drink a thimbleful of it