“If you only knew how unhappy I have been these last days—­”

“Do you think I have been much happier?” I replied.

“I know you have not, and because of that I have a request to make.  You understand everything, and are so good and generous you will not refuse what I ask you.”

“Tell me, what do you want me to do?”

“Leon, you must leave here, go abroad again, and do not come back until mamma and I are able to leave Ploszow.”

I was sure she would ask me that.  I remained silent for a while as if searching for an answer.

“You can do with me what you like,” I said; “but tell me, why do you send me into exile?”

“I do not send you into exile; but you know why—­”

“I know,” I replied, with unfeigned sadness and resignation; “it is because I am ready to give the last drop of my blood for you, because I would shield you with my body from any danger, because I love you more than my life,—­these are heavy sins indeed!”

“No,” she interrupted, with feverish energy, “but because I am the wife of a man I love and respect,—­and I will not listen to such words.”

Impatience and anger seized me; I knew she did not speak the truth.  All married women shield themselves with love and respect for the husband when they arrive at a turning-point of their life, though there may not be a shadow of that feeling in their hearts; nevertheless, Aniela’s words sent a shock through my nerves, and I could scarcely repress the exclamation:  “You say what is not true! you are perjuring yourself, for you neither love nor respect the man;” but the thought that her energy would not hold out long made me refrain, and I replied, almost humbly:—­

“Do not be angry with me, Aniela; I will go.”

I saw that my humility disarmed her, and that she felt sorry for me.  Suddenly she pulled a leaf from a low-hanging branch, and began to tear it nervously to pieces.  She made superhuman efforts not to burst into tears, but I saw her breast heaving with agitation.

I, too, was moved to the very depth of my soul, and continued with difficulty:—­

“Do not wonder that I hesitate to comply with your wish, for it is very heavy upon me.  I have told you that I do not wish for anything but to breathe the same air with you, to look at you, and God knows it is not too much I ask for; yet such as it is, it is my all.  And you take it away from me.  Think only; everybody else is allowed to come here, to speak to you, look at you—­but me.  Why am I shut out?  Because you are dearer to me than to anybody else!  What a refined cruelty of fate!  Only put yourself in my place.  It is difficult for you, who have never known what loneliness means; you love your husband, or think you do, which comes to the same; put yourself for a moment into my position, and you will understand that such a sentence is worse than death.  You ought to feel at least a little pity.  Driving me from