and began imploring me to take her away as soon as possible, if I want to keep her alive. . . . I could make out nothing, I tried to soothe her. . . . Her sobs grew more violent, . . . and suddenly through her sobs I made out . . . well, in fact, I made out that she loves you. I assure you, you and I are reasonable people, and we can’t imagine how deeply she feels and with what incredible force her feelings show themselves; it has come upon her as unexpectedly and irresistibly as a thunderstorm. You’re a very nice person,» Gagin pursued, «but why she’s so in love with you, I confess I don’t understand. She says she has been drawn to you from the first moment she saw you. That’s why she cried the other day when she declared she would never love any one but me.—She imagines you despise her, that you most likely know about her birth; she asked me if I hadn’t told you her story,—I said, of course, that I hadn’t; but her intuition’s simply terrible. She has one wish,—to get away, to get away at once. I sat with her till morning; she made me promise we should not be here to-morrow, and only then, she fell asleep. I have been thinking and thinking, and at last I made up my mind to speak to you. To my mind, Acia is right; the best thing is for us both to go away from here. And I should have taken her away to-day, if I had not been struck by an idea which made me pause. Perhaps . . . who knows? do you like my sister? If so, what’s the object of my taking her away? And so I decided to cast aside all reserve. . . . Besides, I noticed something myself. . . I made up my mind . . . to find out from you . . .» Poor Gagin was completely out of countenance. «Excuse me, please,» he added, «I’m not used to such bothers.»

I took his hand.

«You want to know,» I pronounced in a steady voice, «whether I like your sister? Yes, I do like her—»

Gagin glanced at me. «But,» he said, faltering, «you’d hardly marry her, would you?»

«How would you have me answer such a question? Only think; can I at the moment—-»

«I know, I know,» Gagin cut me short; «I have no right to expect an answer from you, and my question was the very acme of impropriety. . . . But what am I to do? One can’t play with fire. You don’t know Acia; she’s quite capable of falling ill, running away, or asking you to see her alone. . . . Any other girl might manage to hide it all and wait—but not she. It is the first time with her, that’s the worst of it! If you had seen how she sobbed at my feet to-day, you would understand my fears.»

I was pondering. Gagin’s words «asking you to see her alone,» had sent a twinge to my heart. I felt it was shameful not to meet his honest frankness with frankness.

«Yes,» I said at last; «you are right. An hour ago I got a note from your sister. Here it is.»

Gagin took the note, quickly looked it through, and let his hands fall on his knees. The expression of perplexity on his face was very amusing, but I was in no mood for laughter.

«I tell you again, you’re an honourable man,» he said; «but what’s to be done now? What? she herself wants to go away, and she writes to you and blames herself for acting unwisely . . . and when had she time to write this? What does she wish of you?»

I pacified him, and we began to discuss as coolly as we could what we ought to do.

The conclusion we reached at last was that, to avoid worse harm befalling, I was to go and meet Acia, and to have a straight-forward explanation with her; Gagin pledged himself to stay at home, and not to give a sign of knowing about her note to me; in the evening we arranged to see each other again.

«I have the greatest confidence in you,» said Gagin, and he pressed my hand; «have mercy on her and on me. But we shall go away to-morrow, anyway,» he added getting up, «for you won’t marry Acia, I see.»

«Give me time till the evening,» I objected.

«All right, but you won’t marry her.»

He went away, and I threw myself on the sofa, and shut my eyes. My head was going round; too many impressions had come bursting on it at once. I was vexed at Gagin’s frankness, I was vexed with Acia, her love delighted and disconcerted me, I could not comprehend what had made her reveal it to her brother; the absolute necessity of rapid, almost instantaneous decision exasperated me. «Marry a little girl of seventeen, with her character, how is it possible?» I said, getting up. XV

AT the appointed hour I crossed the Rhine, and the first person I met on the opposite bank was the very boy who had come to me in the morning. He was obviously waiting for me.

«From Fraülein Annette,» he said in a whisper, and he handed me another note.

Acia informed me she had changed the place of our meeting. I was to go in an hour and a half, not to the chapel, but to Frau Luise’s house, to knock below, and go up to the third storey.

«Is it, yes, again?» asked the boy.

«Yes,» I repeated, and I walked along the bank of the Rhine. There was not time to go home, I didn’t want to wander about the streets. Beyond the town wall there was a little garden, with a skittle ground and tables for beer drinkers. I went in there. A few middle-aged Germans were playing skittles; the wooden balls rolled along with a sound of knocking, now and then cries of approval reached me. A pretty waitress, with her eyes swollen with weeping, brought me a tankard of beer; I glanced at her face. She turned quickly and walked away.

«Yes, yes,» observed a fat, red-cheeked citizen sitting by, «our Hannchen is dreadfully upset to-day; her sweetheart’s gone for a soldier.» I looked at her; she was sitting huddled up in a corner, her face propped on her hand; tears were rolling one by one between her fingers. Some one called for beer; she took him a pot, and went back to her place. Her grief affected me; I began musing on the interview awaiting me, but my dreams were anxious, cheerless dreams. It was with no light heart I was going to this interview; I had no prospect before me of giving myself up to the bliss of love returned; what lay before me was to keep my word, to do a difficult duty. «One can’t play with her.» These words of Gagin’s had gone through my heart like arrows. And three days ago, in that boat borne along by the current, had I not been pining with the thirst for happiness? It had become possible, and I was hesitating, I was pushing it away, I was bound to push it from me—its suddenness bewildered me. Acia herself, with her fiery temperament, her past, her bringing-up, this fascinating, strange creature, I confess she frightened me. My feelings were long struggling within me. The appointed hour was drawing near. «I can’t marry her,» I decided at last; «she shall not know I love her.»

I got up, and putting a thaler in the hand of poor Hannchen (she did not even thank me), I directed my steps towards Frau Luise’s. The air was already overcast with the shadows of evening, and the narrow strip of sky, above the dark street, was red with the glow of sunset. I knocked faintly at the door; it was opened at once. I stepped through the doorway, and found myself in complete darkness.

«This way.» I heard an old woman’s voice. «You’re expected.»

I took two steps, groping my way, a long hand took mine.

«Is that you, Frau Luise?» I asked.

«Yes,» answered the same voice, «‘Tis I, my fine young man.» The old woman led me up a steep staircase, and stopped on the third floor. In the feeble light from a tiny window, I saw the wrinkled visage of the burgomaster’s widow. A crafty smile of mawkish sweetness contorted her sunken lips, and pursed up her dim-sighted eyes. She pointed me to a little door; with an abrupt movement I opened it and slammed it behind me. XVI

IN the little room into which I stepped, it was rather dark, and I did not at once see Acia. Wrapped in a big shawl, she was sitting on a chair by the window, turning away from me and almost hiding her head like a frightened bird. She was breathing quickly, and trembling all over. I felt unutterably sorry for her. I went up to her. She averted her head still more. . . .

«Anna Nikolaevna,» I said.

She suddenly drew herself up, tried to look at me. and could not. I took her hand, it was cold, and lay like a dead thing in mine.

«I wished»—Acia began, trying to smile, but unable to control her pale lips; «I wanted—No, I can’t,» she said, and ceased. Her voice broke at every word.

I sat down beside her.

«Anna Nikolaevna,» I repeated, and I too could say nothing more.

A silence followed. I still