to drown myself in.

Aniela did not visit the sick man that day, but remained with her
mother. I saw her only at dinner, at which also the mother was present
in her invalid's chair. It is only natural that Aniela should devote
her time to her mother, and yet I fancy she does it partly to avoid
being alone with me. In time our mutual relations will establish
themselves upon an easier footing, but I quite understand that at
first it will be a little awkward. Aniela has so much intelligence of
heart, so much goodness and sensibility, that she cannot look upon our
present position with indifference, and has not worldly experience
enough to preserve an appearance of ease. This practice comes with
later years, when the live spring of feelings begins to dry up and the
mind acquires a certain conventionality.

I had let Aniela see there was no resentment in my heart towards her,
and I shall not allude even to the past, and for that reason did not
try to see her alone. In the evening during tea we discussed general
topics. My aunt questioned me about Clara, who interests her very
much. I told her all I knew about her, and from that we drifted into
conversation about artists generally. My aunt looks upon them as
people sent into the world by kind Providence to give performances for
the benefit of charitable institutions. I maintained that artists,
provided their hearts were pure and not filled with vanity and love of
self, might be the happiest creatures in the world, as they are always
in contact with something infinite and absolutely perfect. From life
comes all evil, from art only happiness. This was, indeed, my point of
view, supported by observation. Aniela agreed with me, and if I took
note of the conversation it is because I was struck by a remark of
Aniela's, simple in itself, but to me full of meaning. When we spoke
about the contentment arising from art she said: "Music is a great
consoler."

I saw in this involuntary confession that she is unhappy, and is
conscious of it. Besides, in regard to that, I never had any doubts.
Even the face is not the face of a happy woman. If anything, it is
more beautiful than before,--apparently calm, even serene; but there
is none of that light which springs from inward happiness, and there
is a certain preoccupation that was not there formerly. In the course
of the day I noticed that her temples have a slight yellow tint like
that of ivory. I looked at her with an ever renewed deli