aring her position to my
own. As my aunt remained with Pani Celina, whom the servant wheeled
along at a certain distance behind, I could with freedom allude to our
last conversation in the park.

"Not long ago," I said, "I asked you for alms, and you bestowed them
on me. I see now that this does not bind me to anything, and I may
again hold out my wooden platter at the church gate."

"Eh! to ask other charitable souls for the same," replied Aniela.
"Aunty is going to invite one charitable soul to Ploszow, I
understand."

"If it is Miss Hilst you mean, she is too big to find room in a single
heart; it wants three at least to hold her," but Aniela did not leave
off teasing, and shaking her little finger at me, said:--

"It is a suspicious case, very suspicious."

"At present there is no ground for suspicion," I replied. "My heart
is a repository of brotherly feelings, and there reigns supreme the
spiteful little being who is tormenting me at present."

Aniela ceased laughing and jesting, slackened her pace, and presently
we joined the elder ladies. The remainder of the day passed without
a cloud, and so pleasantly that at times I fancied myself again a
schoolboy. My eyes still spoke to her of love; but my desires slept.
My aunt went to Warsaw after lunch, and I remained in Pani Celina's
room, reading to her Montalembert's letters, with whom my father at
one time had a regular correspondence. These letters would have seemed
very tedious to me but for Aniela's presence. Raising my eyes now and
then, I met her glance, which filled me with inexpressible joy. Unless
I have lost all power of judgment, she looks at me as would look a
pure, innocent woman, unconsciously loving with all her soul. What a
good day it has been!

My aunt came back towards evening, and announced visitors. To-morrow
both the Sniatynskis are coming, and Clara Hilst.

It is very late, but I do not want to sleep, for I am loathe to part
with the memories of the day. Sleep cannot be more beautiful. The park
is literally alive with the song of the nightingales, and there is
still in me a great deal of the old romanticist. The night is clear
and limpid, and the sky full of stars. Thinking of Aniela, I say a
hundred times good-night to her. I see that side by side with the
_improductivite Slave_, there is in me a great deal of purely Polish
sentimentality. I had not known myself in that capacity before. But
what does it matter? I love her very much.