ankenthal?"

The baron, looking around from behind his cane, remarked:

"It is too smooth and shining for such an old date."

Maryan answered, with his hand on the lock:

"It is polished with agate."

And he went out. But the baron, after crossing the threshold,
began:

"And as to the ruddy-brownish biscuit--"

The door closed; the voices ceased. Kranitski stood some time in
the antechamber, then he turned toward the little drawing-room,
and whispered:

"'Polished with agate'--'Biscuit,' and those are their last
words!"

Some minutes later, in a Turkish dressing-gown with patched
lining and mended sleeves, Kranitski lay on his long chair,
opposite his collection of pipes, and, in deep thought, twirled
his golden cigarette-case. In vain did Mother Clemens urge him to
eat a little of that Arabian pate and drink a glass of liqueur;
he tried, but could swallow nothing. Sorrow had closed his
throat; he was sunk in reminiscences. He felt with perfect
tangibleness that breath of cold air which was blowing around
him. In this manner did Time blow on the man--Time, that
merciless jester, who had always circled about playing various
pranks on him; but Kranitski had never looked into the face of
that jester, with attention. Occasionally, sorrow and grief had
come to him in company with the trickster, but they were
transient, not of the kind which go into the depth of the heart,
but such as slip along over the surface. He grew gloomy; was
sorry for having lost someone, or having missed something, and
passed on with springy, lightly swaying gait, with his long
continued youth, humming some fashionable ditty; or, with tender
smile on his lips, living easily and joyously in endless pursuit
of agreeable trifles. But, now, he has the first look at Time,
face to face and near by. The current has borne away; the abyss
has swallowed; people, houses, relations, feelings, and nothing
comes back from them but one word in a ceaseless murmur: "Gone!
gone! gone!" That which is ended to-day calls to the man's mind
all things that have been. That past is to him something in the
form of a mighty grave, or rather a catacomb, composed of a host
of graves, through the openings of which are visible the absent;
not only those snatched away by death, but also those gone
through separation, removal, oblivion. Dead were faces once dear;
faded were moments once precious; portions of life had dropped
into dust; and Time, standing before the ca