w--to-morrow, the great day for me. What day will it be? Let me
see--to-morrow is Wednesday."

"Wednesday, yes," repeated Vjera. "If only there were no to-morrow--" She
checked herself. "I mean," she added, quickly, "if only it could be
Thursday, without any day between."

"You are a strange girl, Vjera. I do not know what you are thinking of
to-day. But to-morrow you will see. I think they will come for me in the
morning. You shall see, you shall see."

Vjera began to move onward and the Count walked by her side, wondering at
her manner and tormenting his brain in the vain effort to understand it.
In front of her door he held out his hand.

"Promise me one thing," he said, as she laid her fingers in his and looked
up at him. Her eyes were still full of tears.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Promise that you will be my wife, when you are convinced that all this
good fortune is real. You do not believe in it, though I cannot tell why.
I only ask that when you are obliged to believe in it, you will do as I
ask."

Vjera hesitated, and as she stood still the hand he held trembled
nervously.

"I promise," she said, at last, as though with a great effort. Then, all
at once, she covered her eyes and leaned against the door-post. He laid
his hand caressingly upon her shoulder.

"Is it so hard to say?" he asked, tenderly.

"Oh, but if it should ever be indeed true!" she moaned. "If it should--if
it should!"

"What then? Shall we not be happy together? Will it not be even pleasant
to remember these wretched years?"

"But if it should turn out so--oh, how can I ever be a fitting wife for
you, how can I learn all that a great lady must think, and do, and say? I
shall be unworthy of you--of your new friends, of your new world--but
then, it cannot really happen. No--do not speak of it any more, it hurts
me too much--good-night, good-night! Let us sleep and forget, and go back
to our work in the morning, as though nothing had happened--in the
morning, to-morrow. Will you? Then good-night."

"There will be no work to-morrow," he said, returning to his argument. But
she broke away and fled from him and disappeared in the dark and narrow
staircase. As he stood, he could hear her light tread on the creaking wood
of the steps, fainter and fainter in the distance. Then he caught the
feeble tinkle of a little bell, the opening and shutting of a door, and he
was alone in the gloom of the evening.

For some minutes he stood still