iftly, swiftly did she go till she met Irene at
the door of the next drawing room. Cara raised the little dog
from the floor, straightened herself, her eyes met the strange
glance of her sister. Irene blinked repeatedly, as if some
disagreeable light had struck her eyes.

"Always so gladsome, Cara!"

"I?" cried the girl. "Oh, so! Puffie made me laugh--and--the sun
shines so nicely. The day is beautiful, isn't it, Ira? Have you
noticed how diamond sparks glitter on the snow? The trees are all
covered with frost. Let us go with Miss Mary for a walk. I will
take Puffie, but I will cover him with that blanket which I
finished embroidering yesterday. Is mamma well?"

"Why do you ask about mamma?"

"Because, when I gave her 'good-morning,' I thought that she was
ill, she was so pale--pale. I asked her, but she said: 'Oh, it is
nothing, I am well.' Still it seems to me--"

"Let nothing seem to you!" Irene interrupted her almost angrily.
"The surmises of children like you have no sense in them most of
the time. Where are you going?"

"To father."

She pointed with her eyes to her mother's rooms.

"Is that--that man there?"

It was not to be discovered why she spoke in lowered tones, but
Irene's voice sounded almost harsh when she inquired:

"What man?"

"Pan Kranitski."

Now Cara's red, small lips, in the twinkle of an eye, formed a
crooked line in spite of her; then, bending toward her sister,
she said, almost in a whisper:

"Tell me, Ira, but tell the truth. Do you like that
man--Kranitski?" Irene laughed aloud, freely, almost as she had
never laughed.

"Ridiculous! Ah, what an amusing baby you are! Why should I not
like him? He is our old and good acquaintance." And returning to
her usual formality, she added: "Besides, you know that I do not
like anyone very much."

"Not me?" asked Cara, fondly touching with her red lips the pale
cheeks of her sister.

"You? A little! But go away. You hinder my reading."

"I will go. Come Puffie--come!" And with the dog on her arm she
went off, but she stopped at the door, and turning to Irene, she
bent forward a little, and said, in a low voice: "But I do not
like him--I do not know why this is. First I liked him, but for
some time I cannot endure him--I do not know myself why."

At the last words she turned away, capriciously, and went on.

"She does not know! does not know!" whispered Irene over her
book. "That is why she dances with the dog. What happiness in