"Not for her, since her life will be a success, and her death also." Pan Stanislav began to mutter, "As God lives, not only every mightier feeling, but simple friendship, ends in regret; never has any attachment brought me a thing except suffering. Bukatski is right: from general attachments there is nothing but suffering, from personal attachments nothing but suffering; and now live, man, in the world so surrounded." The conversation broke off, or rather was turned into the monologue of Professor Vaskovski, who began a discourse with himself about Rome and Christianity. After dinner they went out on the street, which was full of the sound of sleighbells and the gladsome winter movement. Though in the morning of that day snow had fallen in sufficient abundance, toward evening the weather had become fair, calm, and frosty. "But, professor, button thy shirt." "Very well; I will button it," answered Vaskovski; and he began to draw the holes of his vest to the buttons of his frockcoat. "Still I like that Vaskovski," said Pan Stanislav, to himself, when on the way home. "If I were to grow attached to him for good, the deuce would take him surely, for such is my fate. Fortunately I am insensible enough to him so far." And thus he persuaded himself untruly, for he had a sincere friendship for Vaskovski, and the man's fate was not indifferent in the least to him. When he reached home, Litka's face smiled at him from a large photograph as he entered; this had been sent by Marynia during his absence, and moved Pan Stanislav to the depth of his soul. He experienced, moreover, this species of emotion whenever he remembered Litka on a sudden, or saw unexpectedly one of her portraits. He thought then, that love for the child, hidden away somewhere in the depth of his heart, rose suddenly with its previous vividness and power, penetrating his whole being with indescribable tenderness and sorrow. This revival of sorrow was even so painful that he avoided it as a man avoids a real suffering usually. This time, however, there was something sweet in his emotion. Litka was smiling at him by the light of the lamp, as if she wished to say "Pan Stas;" around her head on the white margin of the picture were four green birches. Pan Stanislav stopped and looked for a long time; at last he thought, "I know in what may be the happiness of life, in children!" But he said to himself a few moments later, "I never shall love my own as I loved that poor child." The servant entered now and gave him a letter from Marynia, which came with the photograph. She wrote as follows:-- "My father asks me to pray you to spend the evening with us. Emilia has moved to her own house, and receives no visits to-day. I send you Litka's photograph, and beg you to come without fail. I wish to speak with you of Emilia. Papa has invited Pan Bigiel, who has promised to come; therefore you and I can talk quietly."