I sat a quarter of an hour with her, then I kissed her hand and returned to the hall. It was not true that I hated her; I loved her as never before. But to make up for that, when I saw Selim in the hall I wanted to choke him. Oh, him, him, I hated at that moment from the bottom of my soul. He and the priest ran up to me together. "Well, how is it there?" "All is well." And turning to Selim I said in his ear, "Go home. To-morrow we will meet at the Pits near the edge of the forest. I want to speak to thee. I do not wish thee to come here. Our relations must cease." The blood rushed to his face. "What does this mean?" "I will tell thee to-morrow. I do not wish to do so to-day. Dost understand? I do not wish. To-morrow morning at six." When I had said this I went back to Pani d'Yves' chamber. Selim ran some steps after me, but stopped at the door. A few minutes later I looked through the window and saw him ride away. I sat about an hour in the chamber adjoining that one where Hania was resting. I could not go in, for, weakened by crying, she had fallen asleep. Pani d'Yves and the priest went to hold some consultation with my father. I sat alone till the hour for tea. During tea I saw that my father, the priest, and Pani d'Yves had faces half mysterious, half severe. I confess that a kind of disquiet seized me. Could they have divined something? That was probable; for in every case between us young people things had happened that day which were quite unnatural. "To-day," said my father, "I have received a letter from thy mother." "How is mother's health?" "Perfectly good. But she is troubled about what is happening here. She wants to return soon, but I will not permit her; she must stay two months longer." "What is mother alarmed about?" "It is known to thee that small-pox is in the village; I was so incautious as to inform her." To tell the truth, I did not know that small-pox was prevalent. It may be that I had heard of it, but of course the information had dropped from my ears, as from a wall. "Will father go to her?" I asked. "I shall see. We will talk of that." "It is now nearly a year that the dear woman has been abroad," said the priest. "Her health requires it. She will be able to spend the coming winter at home. She writes that she feels much better, but is yearning for us, and is disquieted," said my father. Then, turning to me, he added, "Come to my room after tea. I wish to speak with thee." "I will, father." I rose and with all the others went to Hania. She was perfectly well now; she wished even to rise, but my father would not give permission. About ten in the evening a brichka rattled up before the porch, and in it Doctor Stanislav, who had been in peasant cottages since midday. After he had examined Hania carefully, he declared that she was not sick in the least, but needed rest and recreation. He forbade study and prescribed amusement and cheerfulness.