iss my aunt's hands, apropos of nothing, out
of sheer content. She looked very pretty in a long, fluffy boa and
a coquettish fur cap, from under which the dark eyes and the almost
childish face peeped forth.

How young she looks.

I feel at home in Ploszow, it is so quiet and restful; and I like the
huge, old-fashioned chimneys. The woods are to my aunt as the apple of
her eye, but she does not grudge herself fuel; and big logs, which are
crackling and burning there from morning until night, make it look
bright and cheerful. We sat around the fire the whole afternoon. I
brought out some of my reminiscences, and told them about Rome and its
treasures. The three women listened with such devoutness that it made
me feel ridiculous in my own eyes. From time to time, while I was
talking, my aunt cast a searching glance at Aniela to see whether she
expressed enough admiration. But there is too much of that already.
Yesterday she said to me:--

"Another man might spend there his whole life and not see half the
beautiful things you do."

My aunt added with dogmatic firmness,--

"I have always said so."

It is as well that there is not another sceptic here, for his presence
would embarrass me not a little.

A certain dissonant chord in our little circle is Aniela's mother. The
poor soul has had so many sorrows and anxieties that her cheerfulness,
if ever she had any, is a thing of the past. She is simply afraid of
the future, and instinctively suspects pitfalls even in good fortune.
She was very unhappy in her married life, and afterwards has had
continual worries about her estate, which is very much involved. In
addition to all this she suffers from nervous headaches.

Aniela belongs to that category of women who never trouble themselves
about money matters. I like her for that, for it proves that she
thinks of higher things. For the matter of that, everything in her
pleases and delights me now.

Tenderness grows on the soil of attraction by the senses, as quick
as flowers after a warm rain. To-day, in the morning, I saw the maid
carrying up her gown and boots; this moved me very much, especially
the little, little boots, as if the wearing of them was the crown of
all virtues in Aniela.

PLOSZOW, 8 or 9 February.

My aunt has taken up her visual warfare with Pan Chwastowski. This
is such an original habit of hers that I must describe one of their
disputes. The dear lady can evidently not exist without it, or at
l