‘“What is the secret? Will you tell me?” ‘“Yes, I will tell you; but you must not be frightened. It is the greatest secret of my life, Annita, and the secret is this: that I love you, Annita, seriously and deeply. I am in love with you, and with no one else, for the rest of my life. Annita, I ask you now, will you be my wife? Look at me, Annita; what do you say? You care a little bit for me, Annita, don’t you?” ‘Annita stooped to me in trepidation. ‘“Is it true, Theodore,” she whispered, “that you love me, and will have me for your wife? Say it once more.” ‘“Yes, Annita, I love you, and you alone, and no one but you in the whole world,” I said, pressing her to me, and kissing her pale face till the rosy colour came back in her cheeks. ‘“Theodore,” she whispered, “I have always loved you. I have always thought of nobody but you. All I have is yours, and has been yours for many years—heart, soul, and thought.” ‘“God bless you, Annita!” I exclaimed. “At the last minute I began to doubt. If you had not cared for me, Annita, I should have been very wretched; in fact, a miserable man, bad, morose, and full of hatred. But not now: you know what the saying is of catching a sunbeam.” ‘“Can one catch sunbeams?” ‘“Yes, the sunbeam is the smile on your lips, Annita; if I can catch that smile all my life, then I am saved, and will be a good man and a happy one.” ‘“You shall have it, Theodore; it shall be yours, and yours only.” ‘The sun was just then setting. The evening was calm; there came gentle breezes over us from the wind, which was going down. Never had it seemed to me that the sun set so brilliantly, or that Lake Ladoga ever looked so beautiful, as on that evening when Annita confessed her love. As the sun disappeared behind the waves of the lake, and darkness spread over the sky, I felt that even were the earthly sun to depart, yet an everlasting dawn of light and joy had arisen in my soul. We wandered back through the flower-garden to the house. ‘“But what will father and Theodora say?” exclaimed Annita as we approached the house. ‘“To-morrow I shall talk to my parents and Theodora’s parents,” I said calmly. ‘The next day I went to my father, and told him that Annita and I were in love with each other. ‘“Just so,” said my father, “just as you like, as far as I am concerned.” ‘“Will you consent, then, to our marrying?” ‘“You marry Annita!” he exclaimed. ‘“Yes; I want no one else for my wife.” ‘“You have really thought of marrying the beggar-girl, Annita. Ha, ha, ha!” laughed my father in derision, and was on the point of breaking out in an uncontrollable passion, but I saw that he restrained himself; he very well knew that his beloved son was stubborn, too, and he considered that at the outset it would be best to proceed cautiously. ‘“Annita is poor,” I said quite quietly; “but she is no beggar, and she is prettier than any rich girl I have seen; and she has been, moreover, as well brought up as any Russian lady of rank.”