away
or stay, but it is not true!" The very passion with which these words
were uttered showed me that it might be true. I felt inclined to tell
her so with frank brutality, but I saw my aunt coming towards us.
Aniela was not able to conceal her emotion, and my aunt looking at her
asked at once:--

"What is troubling you, child? what have you two been talking about?"

"Aniela was telling me how grieved her mother was about the sale of
Gluchow--and I do not wonder she took it so much to heart."

Whether Aniela's strength was exhausted, or the untruth I made her
take a silent part in filled the cup of bitterness to overflowing, she
burst into incontrollable sobs that shook her like a reed; my aunt
folded her into her arms and hushed her as if she were a little child.

"Aniela, my darling, there is no help for it; let us submit to God's
will. The hail has ruined five of my farms, and I did not even say a
word about it to Chwastowski."

The mention of the five farms appeared to me so inappropriate,
selfish, and futile in presence of Aniela's tears that it made me
quite angry with my aunt.

"Never mind the farms," I said brusquely, "she is grieved about her
mother;" and I went away in sorrow, for I felt I was torturing the
woman I loved beyond anything. I had conquered along the whole line,
yet I felt profoundly sad, as if the future were full of unknown
terrors.

25 May.

To-day is the third day since our conversation, and as Aniela has not
referred to it again, I remain. She does not say much to me, nor does
she avoid me altogether, fearing to attract notice. I try to be good,
friendly, and attentive, but do not thrust myself in her way. I want
her to think I keep my feeling under control, but she cannot help
seeing it is there, and increasing every moment. At any rate we have a
little world to ourselves, where only we two dwell; we have our mutual
secret from the others. When we speak about indifferent topics we both
know that at the bottom of our hearts there is something we both think
about but do not put into words. This forms a tie; time and patience
will do the rest. From my love I weave a thousand threads around her,
which will bind us more and more. This would be all in vain if she
loved her husband; it would make her hate me. But the past speaks in
my favor, and the present does not not belong to Kromitzki. I still
think it over with the greatest impartiality, and I come to the same
conclusion, that