‘“I cannot take you with me, Annita,” I said; and I tried to take one hand out of hers. ‘“I won’t go to the convent,” she said with indignation, and she would not loosen her hold on my hand. ‘“You must go,” I said. “It cannot be otherwise, Annita. I will come and see you, and look after you. Say good-bye, and be a reasonable little girl,” I replied, bending down to her. ‘She threw her arms around my neck, sobbed bitterly, and again exclaimed: ‘“But why can’t you take me with you?” ‘I gently disengaged her arms, kissed her on the forehead, and she went with my mother into her room. ‘I said good-bye to my parents overnight, as I was to start very early in the morning. It was still quite dark when I got up and went down to the sitting-room. When I entered it, I saw Annita standing by a small table, where the cloth was laid for me. ‘“Annita;” I exclaimed, as she approached me; “are you here, child?” ‘“Yes,” she said; “I wanted to see you before you left.” ‘“But how did you manage to wake up so early?” ‘“I first tried to remain awake in my room, but I couldn’t. Then I went quietly to the maid’s room, and slept with her so as to be sure to wake up, and so contrive that you would not leave without my seeing you off. Are you angry with me?” ‘“No, my child; I am not angry with you. God bless you! Good-bye again, and be a good girl, and go and lie down again!” ‘She went back again to her room in tears. She had to the very last, perhaps, entertained a slight hope that I would be prevailed upon to take her with me. I was sincerely sorry for the child, but it was altogether out of the question for me to think of taking her to Moscow. ‘On Christmas Eve in 1584 we were both to be at home again. Theodore had come to the throne, and I obtained leave to go home and visit my parents. Annita arrived before me, and received me in company with my father and mother, as I came driving into the courtyard. Annita was in her nineteenth year, and had so grown that she was almost as tall as my mother. She was a delicately-made, slender girl, with glossy, fair hair, which curled slightly over her temples. She still wore her convent dress, and had during the three years she had been away become beautiful like a Madonna. But there were two things in particular which marked Annita out as distinct from any other woman whom I had ever seen—her beautiful eyes and an engaging smile. When Annita smiled no mortal man or woman could resist her. I often observed that when she came into a room, where there were many people, it was as if a ray of sunshine had suddenly shone into the room. Even if it so happened that the company had been sitting in silence, Annita’s appearance seemed to cast a ray of friendliness and harmony over the faces of the company, and they soon became gay and lively. ‘When I came home on this occasion Annita did not, as usual, spring wildly to me, and cling fast to my hand with both of hers; but she stood quite still, and only shook hands with me.