Aniela looked at me for a moment, and there was that hunted, half-frightened expression in her eyes again. If she had put her hand upon my naked heart she could not have given it a sharper pull. The more I had prepared myself for an exhibition of triumphant coldness and satisfaction at my disappointment, the more I felt crushed now by that angelic compassion. All my calculations and foresight had been put to naught. I supposed she could not help showing herself off as a married woman. And now I had to remind myself that she was married; but in the recollection there was no loathing, nothing but inexpressible sorrow. It is in my nature that in every moral suffering I try to reopen my wounds. I wanted to do that even now by speaking about her husband; but I could not do it. It seemed to me cruel, almost a profanation. Instead of that I said that I should like to see her mother, if she were able to receive me. Aniela went to see, and presently came back and said,-- "Mamma will be pleased to see you." We crossed to the other side of the house, my aunt going with us. I wanted to say a kind word to Aniela so as to put her more at ease; but my aunt was in the way; presently I thought it would be even better if I said it within my aunt's hearing. Near the door, leading into Pani Celina's rooms, I stopped and, turning to Aniela, said,-- "Give me your hand, my dear little sister." Aniela put her hand into mine; I saw her eyes lighting up with gratitude for the words "little sister," and the pressure of her hand seemed to say:-- "Oh! let us be friends! let us forgive each other!" "I hope you two will agree together," muttered my aunt. "We shall, we shall; he is so good!" replied Aniela. And truly, my heart was very full of good-will at that moment. Entering Pani Celina's room, I greeted her very cordially, but she replied with a certain constraint, and I am sure she would have received me with still greater coldness had she not feared to offend my aunt. But I was not hurt by this; her resentment is quite justifiable. Maybe, in her mind, she connects me with the loss of her estate, and thinks all this would not have happened if I had acted differently. I found her much changed. For some time she has been confined to her invalid chair, on which they wheel her on fine days into the garden. Her face, always delicate, looked as if moulded in wax. There are still traces that show how beautiful she must have been, and at the same time so unhappy. I asked after her health, and expressed the hope that, with the return of the fine weather, she would soon recover her strength. She listened with a sad smile, and shook her head; two tears rolled silently down her face. Then, fixing her sad eyes upon me, she said,-- "You know Gluchow has been sold?" This evidently is the thought ever present,--her continual sorrow and gnawing trouble. When Aniela heard the question she grew very red. It was a painful blush, because a blush of shame and sorrow.