asked Clara to translate into music the voices of spring. She said
there was already a _Fruehlingslied_ singing within her, and she
would try to give it expression. Truly she looked as if the song was
there,--besides she is like a great harp that speaks only in sounds.

Her face was bright with burning blushes; Aniela instead looked
fagged, though she evidently tried to keep up with the Sniatynskis,
who were as lively as a couple of school-children on their holiday.
They began finally to race with each other, and Clara joined in the
sport, which she ought not to have done, considering her size, as the
quick motion was anything but graceful,--nay, almost ridiculous.

When they were thus running after each other I remained alone with
Aniela. According to my plan of operations I was anxious to bring
her mind to full consciousness through the uneasiness with which she
seemed to be oppressed.

"There is something troubling you, Aniela; what is it?" I asked.

"No, nothing whatever."

"It seemed to me as if you were dissatisfied with something; is it
that you do not like Clara?"

"No; I like her very much, and do not wonder she is so much admired."

Further conversation was made impossible by the return of the truants.
It was also time to go back. On the way, Sniatynski asked Clara
whether she felt really satisfied with her stay at Warsaw.

"The best proof I can give you of this is that I do not think of going
away yet," she replied gayly.

"We must try to keep you with us always," I interpolated.

Clara, in spite of the simplicity with which she accepts all that is
said to her, looked questioningly at me, then grew a little confused,
and replied,--"They are all very kind to me here."

I was conscious that my words were in a way dishonorable, as they
might mislead Clara; but all I cared for was the impression they would
make upon Aniela. Unfortunately, I could not see her face, as she was
buttoning her gloves, with her head bent so low that her hat concealed
it from me. This sudden movement seemed to me a good sign.

The elder ladies were awaiting us with the dinner, which lasted until
nine o'clock; and then Clara improvised her _Fruehlingslied_. I am
almost certain that since Ploszow existed there had never been heard
such music within its walls, but I paid very little attention to it.
I sat near her in the dusk, as she did not want the lamps lit.
Sniatynski waved his arm as if it were a baton; which evidently
a