that if at this moment I knelt down at her feet and told her it was she, and she alone, that I loved, she would feel a sudden joy, as one feels upon recovering something very precious.  And if so, I debated within me, why not hasten the solution, if only a way could be found,—­frightening her as little as possible, or making her forget all terror in her joy.  I began at once to devise ways and means, as I understood it must be done in such a way as to make it forever impossible for her to cast me off.  My mind worked very hard at it, as the problem was not an easy one.  Gradually a great emotion stole over me:  and strange to say, it was more on Aniela’s account than on my own that I felt moved,—­for I realized suddenly what a great wrench it would be, and I was afraid for her.

In the mean time it had grown lighter in the drawing-room; the moon had risen above the trees, and cast luminous shafts across the floor.  The melodies of the Fruehlingslied still filled the air, and the nightingales responded to it through the open French window.  It was a glorious evening, warm and balmy, and full of harmony and love.  I thought involuntarily that, if life does not give us happiness, it presents us with a ready frame for it.

In the luminous dusk my eyes searched for Aniela; but she looked at Clara, who at this moment seemed more a vision than a substantial being.  The moonlight, advancing more and more into the room, rested now upon her; and in the light dress she looked like the silvery spirit of music.  But the vision did not last long.  Clara finished her song; whereupon Pani Sniatynska rose, and saying it was late, gave the signal for departure.  As the evening was so warm, I proposed we should see our visitors off as far as the high-road, about half a mile from our house.  I did this on purpose, so as to walk home with Aniela.  I knew she could not well refuse such a mere act of politeness, and I was also sure my aunt would not go with us.

I gave orders for the carriage to drive on and wait on the road, and we went on foot through the lime avenue.  I offered my arm to Clara, but we walked all abreast, accompanied by the croaking of the frogs in the Ploszow mere.

Clara stopped a moment to listen to that chorus, which ceased now and then, to start afresh with redoubled vigor, and said,—­

“This is the finale of my Song of Spring.”

“What an exquisite evening!” remarked Sniatynski, and then began to quote the beautiful lines from the “Merchant of Venice":—­

  “How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! 
  Here will we sit and let the sounds of music
  Creep in our ears:  soft stillness and the night
  Become the touches of sweet harmony.”

He did not remember the rest, but I did, and took up the strain:—­

  “Sit, Jessica.  Look how the floor of heaven
  Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: 
  There’s not the smallest orb which thou behold’st
  But in his motion like an angel sings,
  Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins;
  Such harmony is in immortal souls;
  But whilst this muddy vesture of decay
  Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.”