Whoever hastraversed the long single street of Hétfalu will have noticed three houseswhose exterior plainly shows that nobody dwells in them.
The first of these three houses isoutside the village on a great green hill, round which the herds of thevillage peacefully crop the pasture. Only now and then does one or other ofthese quiet beasts start back when it suddenly comes upon a white skeleton,or a bleached bullock-horn, in the thickest patches of the high grass. Thehouse itself has no roof, and the soot with which years of heavy rains havebedaubed the walls, points to the fact that once upon a time the place wasburnt out. Now, dry white stalks of straw wave upon the moulderingbalustrades.
The iron supports have been taken outof the windows, on the threshold thorns and thistles grow luxuriantly. Thereis no trace of a path—perhaps there never was one.
The land surrounding this house isfull of all sorts of fragrant flowers.
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