Professor Vaskovski inquired every day about the health of the little one; and though most frequently they did not receive him, he sent her flowers. Pan Stanislav, meeting him somewhere at dinner, began thanking him in Pani Emilia's name. "Asters, only asters!" said Vaskovski. "How is she to-day?" "To-day not ill, but, in general, not well; worse than in Reichenhall. Fear for each coming day seizes one; and at the thought that the child may be missing--" Here Pan Stanislav stopped, for further words failed him; at last he burst out,-- "What is the use in looking for mercy? There is nothing but logic, which says that whoso has a sick heart must die. And may thunderbolts split such existence!" Now came Bukatski, who, when he had learned what the conversation was, attacked the professor; even he, as he loved Litka, rebelled in his soul at thought of that death which was threatening her. "How is it possible to deceive oneself so many years, and proclaim principles which turn into nothing in view of blind predestination?" But the old man answered mildly: "How, beloved friends, estimate with your own measure the wisdom of God and His mercy? A man under ground is surrounded by darkness, but he has no right to deny that above him are sky, sun, heat, and light." "Here is consolation," interrupted Pan Stanislav; "a fly couldn't live on such doctrines. And what is a mother to do, whose only and beloved child is dying?" But the blue eyes of the professor seemed to look beyond the world. For a time he gazed straightforward persistently; then he said, like a man who sees something, but is not sure that he sees it distinctly, "It appears to me that this child has fixed herself too deeply in people's hearts to pass away simply, and disappear without a trace. There is something in this,--something was predestined to her; she must accomplish something, and before that she will not die." "Mysticism," said Bukatski. But Pan Stanislav interrupted: "Oh, that it were so, mysticism or no mysticism! Oh, that it were so! A man in misfortune grasps even at a shadow of hope. It never found place in my head that she had to die." But the professor added, "Who knows? she may survive all of us." Polanyetski was in that phase of scepticism in which a man recognizes certainty in nothing, but considers everything possible, especially that everything which at the given time his heart yearns for; he breathed therefore more easily, and received certain consolation. "May God have mercy on her and Pani Emilia!" said he. "I would give money for a hundred Masses if I knew they would help her." "Give for one, if the intention be sincere." "I will, I will! As to the sincerity of intention, I could not be more sincere if the question involved my own life." Vaskovski smiled and said, "Thou art on the good road, for thou knowest how to love."