ls of earth at night-owls. The death of that little
one, and all that was happening and going on in the house, had
made his soul pale from weakness. He understood now Maeterlinck's
expression, to sink to the very eyelids in sorrow. When that
Intruder, who is ever mowing grass beneath life's windows, came
for that little girl, Maryan had the question in mind
continually: "Why do the lamps go out?" Now, like Hjalmar in
"Princess Malenia," he feels every moment like exclaiming:
Someone is weeping here near us! He had moments in which such
nervous impotence attacked him that he did not feel capable of
stirring a finger, or moving an eyelid. Accompanying this
condition was a perfect understanding that all sentimental
family-tenderness is a painted pot. It is known, of course, that
in the world a multitude of maidens are always dying; that each
life is a gate before which grave-diggers are waiting; and that
this does not furnish the slightest reason why those, under whose
window the Intruder has not begun to mow grass yet, should have
pale and sickly souls.

He must flee from expiring lamps, and night-owls; from nervous
impotence and spleen of spirit; he must rush out for new contacts
and horizons; for new spaces, where there are fresh worlds which
are free from the fifty defilements of past centuries.

He concluded and took a seat. Kranitski had tears in his eyes,
and after a rather long silence, he added:

"Thou art going away I see!"

And then, with hesitating voice, he inquired:

"Thou hast said: 'that which is happening and going on in the
house.' What is going on there?"

To this the baron answered, with growing blushes:

"How? Do you not know that Pani Darvid and Panna Irene set out in
a few days--for a retreat?"

"To Krynichna," said Maryan, completing the information. "Father
has made Irene the owner of Krynichna, and they are going there."

Kranitski grew very pale, and only after great red spots had
appeared above his eyes did he look at the baron, and begin:

"Then--"

"Then," added the baron, quickly, "everything is ended between
Panna Irene and me. I am glad, for how could my bite and her idyl
agree? That would have been like the odor of ether on a sunny day
in Maeterlinck's hot-houses. Naturally, I represent the ether,
and Panna Irene the sunny day."

The smile with which he said this grew ever more jeering and
malicious.

"But I know not how they will succeed in the retreat. In spite of
her