s. "I left because I had to, but I will never return. I
will not exchange the freedom of the theater for slavery at home.
Things happened as they did because they had to. My father told me
at that time that he had no longer a daughter, and I now answer that
I have no longer a father. We have parted and will never be reunited
again. I am entirely able to shift for myself, and art will suffice
me for everything."

"So you will not return?" asked Grzesikiewicz, for that was all he
understood of her words.

"No! I have no home and I will not forsake the theater!" replied
Janina in a calm voice, regarding him coolly, but her pale lips
trembled a little and her bosom throbbed violently, convulsed by the
conflict within.

"You will kill him . . . he loves you so . . . he will not outlive
such a blow . . . ." said Grzesikiewicz gently.

"No, Andrew, my father does not love me. A person whom you love you
do not torment for whole years at a time and then drive away from
home like the worst. . . . Even a dog does not turn its young ones
out . . . even an animal never does what was done to me!"

"I have seen and know how bitterly he regrets those reckless words
and how hard it is for him to live without you. I swear that you
will make him happy by returning! That you will restore him to
life!"

"Did he tell you that he desired me to return to Bukowiec? Perhaps
he has given you a letter for me? Please tell me the whole truth!"
she spoke rapidly.

Grzesikiewicz hesitated in confusion and became even sadder.

"No. He neither said anything about it, nor gave me a letter for
you," he answered, lowering his voice.

"So that is how much he loves me and how greatly he longs to see me?
Ha! ha! ha!" she laughed harshly.

"Don't you know him yet? He will die of thirst rather than beg a
glass of water. When I was leaving and told him where I was going,
he did not say a word, but looked at me in such a way and gripped my
hand so firmly that I understood him entirely. . . ."

"No, you did not understand him at all. My father is not at all
concerned about me; he is only concerned over the fact that the
whole neighborhood must be speaking about my departure and my
joining the theater. . . . Surely, Krenska must have left no stone
unturned. . . . He is concerned only about the gossip that is
circulating. He feels disgraced through me. He would like to see me
broken and begging forgiveness at his feet. That is what he is
anxious abou