“You see, little sister, there is such a void around me.  My father is no more; my aunt is a saintly woman; but she does not understand new times and new people.  Her ideas are different from mine.  I shall never marry,—­think only what a lonely man I am.  I have nobody near me,—­nobody to share my thoughts, my plans, or my sorrows; nothing but loneliness around me.  Is it not natural that I look for sympathy where I might expect to find it?  I am like the crippled beggar, who stands waiting at the gate until they give him a small coin.  At this moment the beggar is very poor indeed, and he stands under your window, and begs for a little friendliness, sympathy, and pity.  A very small coin will satisfy him,—­you will not refuse him that, Aniela, will you?”

“I will not, Leon; I will not, since you are so unhappy—­”

Her voice broke, and she began to tremble.  Again I had to make a great effort to restrain myself; and as I looked at her, something like unshed tears took me by the throat.

“Aniela! little Aniela!” I exclaimed, not knowing what to say.

But she waved her hands, as if to ward me off, and said, her eyes full of tears,—­

“Let me go—­I shall be better presently.  I can not go back like this; let me go.”

And she went swiftly away.

“Aniela, forgive me!” I called after her.

My first impulse was to follow her, but I thought it would be better to leave her to herself, and I only followed her with my eyes.  She went quickly back into the avenue we had crossed together, and then turned into a side path.  Sometimes the foliage hid her from my eyes, then again the light dress lit up by the sun appeared between the trees.  From the distance I saw how she shut and opened her sunshade, as if trying by physical exertion to overcome her emotion.  During all that time I inwardly called her the most endearing names that love could invent.  I could not go away without looking once more into her eyes; but I had a long time to wait.  She came at last, but passed quickly by, as if afraid of another shock; she only smiled at me in passing, with angelic sweetness, and said, “I am all right again.”

On her face, pink with exercise, there was no trace of tears.  I remained alone, and a mad, indescribable joy got hold of me, hope filled my heart, and there was one thought dominating everything:  “She loves me, she fights against it, does not yield, deludes herself—­but loves.”  At times, the most self-possessed of men, in the super-abundance of some emotion, comes near the brink of madness.  I was so near it then that I felt a wild desire to hide myself in the deepest recess of the woods, tear the grass, and shout at the top of my voice, “She loves me!” At present, when I am able to think more calmly of this joy, I find it was composed of various active forces.  There was the joy of the artist who sees that a masterpiece he has begun is progressing satisfactorily; maybe also the satisfaction