f 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."

Then I repeated to Clara, who does not understand Polish, the lines in
French, improvising the translation. She listened to it, then raised
her eyes heavenward, and said simply,--

"I was always certain there is music in the spheres."

It appeared that Pani Sniatynska was equally certain of it, and
reminded her husband that she had discussed it with him not long
before, but he was not quite sure he remembered; whereupon a slight
matrimonial dispute took place, at which Clara and I laughed. Aniela
had not joined the conversation at all; did she feel hurt that I
had offered my arm to Clara, and paid her some attention? The very
supposition made me feel happy. Yet I tried not to lose my head, and
said to myself, "Do not run away with the idea that she knows what
jealousy means; she is only a little sad and feels lonely, that is
all." I would have given at this moment a whole host of artists such
as Clara for a few words with Aniela,--to tell her that I belong
to her, and only to her. Then Sniatynski began a discussion about
astronomy, of which I heard now and then a few words, though this
science a