otions from the little head?"

The postman coming in with a parcel of letters interrupted our
conversation. There was the usual budget from the East for Kromitzki;
only one letter for Aniela, from Sniatynski (I recognized his
handwriting on the envelope), and one for me from Clara. The latter
does not say much about herself, but inquires most minutely what I am
doing. I told Aniela who it was that had written, and she, to show me
that all ill-feeling and constraint had gone, began to tease me. I
paid her back in the same coin, and pointing to Sniatynski's letter
said there was another poor man who had succumbed to little Aniela's
wiles. We laughed and bandied jests for a little time.

The human soul, like the bee, extracts sweetness even from bitter
herbs. The most unhappy wretch still tries to squeeze out a little
happiness from his woes, and the merest shadow and pretext will serve
his turn. Sometimes I think that this intense longing for happiness is
one proof more that happiness is awaiting us in another world. I am
convinced also that pessimism was invented as a comfort to satisfy a
want, sum up all human misery, and put it into a philosophic formula.
It satisfies our thirst for truth and knowledge, and happiness itself
is nothing but satisfied craving. Perhaps love in itself is such a
source of happiness that even a clouded love like ours is interwoven
with golden rays. Such a ray fell on our path to-day. I had not
expected it, as I had not expected that a man whose desires are
without limits could be satisfied with so little.

We had scarcely read our letters when Pani Celina, who is now able to
walk without help, came towards us with a footstool for Aniela.

"Oh mamma!" cried out Aniela, in a shocked voice; "You ought not to do
that."

"And did you not yourself nurse me night and day when I was ill?"

I took the footstool from Pani Celina's hands, and kneeling down
before Aniela, I waited until she had put her little feet upon it; and
kneeling thus before her for a second filled me with happiness for the
whole day. It is a fact. A very poor man lives upon crumbs, and smiles
gratefully--through tears.

6 July.

I have a crippled heart, but it is capable of love. It is only now I
fully understand what Sniatynski meant. If I were not a man out
of joint, without an even-balanced mind, poisoned by scepticism,
criticism of myself, and criticism of criticism, if my love were in
harmony with law and principl