of what may come next, rouses me to anger.  This happened now.  The difference between the old Aniela and the present Pani Kromitzka impressed itself upon me more forcibly than ever.  “If you borrowed the very moonbeams for your head-dress, if you were a hundred times more beautiful than my fancy can paint, you would be as nothing to me,—­less than nothing, because an object of aversion.”  My anger rose still, for I fancied that she would come to me in order to point out my guilt, my wrong-doing; that she would be still desirable, but unapproachable.  “We shall see,” I replied inwardly, under the vivid impression that with this woman there was awaiting me a duel; a struggle in which I should lose and gain at the same time,—­lose the haunting memories and regain peace.  At that moment I felt the power to overcome any obstacles, repulse any attack.

Then the door opened quietly, and Aniela came in.

At the sight of her I felt my brain in a whirl, and my finger-tips grew icy cold.  The being before me bore the name of Pani Kromitzka, but had the sweet, hundred times beloved features and inexpressible charm of the Aniela I had known.  In the chaotic bewilderment of my brain there was only one sound I heard distinctly:  “Aniela!  Aniela!  Aniela!” And she did not see me, or took me for somebody else as I stood against the light.  But when I drew nearer, she raised her eyes and stood still as if turned into stone.  I cannot even describe the expression of sudden terror, confusion, emotion, and humility which shone in her face.  She had grown white to the lips, and I was afraid she might faint.  When I took her hand it felt as cold as ice.  I had expected anything but that.  I thought she would let me know in some way or other that she was Pani Kromitzka, but there was nothing of the sort.  She stood before me moved, frightened, my former little Aniela.  It was I who had made her unhappy,—­I who was guilty, a hundred times guilty; and at this moment she looked at me as if she herself asked to be forgiven.  The old love, contrition for the past, and pity overwhelmed me to such a degree that I almost lost my head, and thought I must take her into my arms, and soothe her with endearing words, as one soothes a beloved being.  I was so agitated by the unexpected meeting, not with Pani Kromitzka, but Aniela, that I could only press her hand in silence.  And yet I felt obliged to say something; therefore, pulling myself together, I said, as if in somebody else’s voice,—­

“Did aunt not tell you I was coming?”

“Yes; she told me,” said Aniela, with an evident effort.