There was, however, no outward manifestation, deep and passionate though that struggle may have been. It is true that we met each other almost every day, but nearly always in the company of the children, and if it happened that we arranged to meet alone, we had never more time to spare than perhaps half an hour. By this time his attitude towards me had entirely changed. The touch of scorn and sarcasm that had confused and irritated me at the beginning of our acquaintance had turned into gravity and thoughtfulness. I on my part displayed much pride and coolness, since his politeness and reserve made me afraid to betray my feelings, which, after all, were not reciprocated. What he really thought of me I never knew. He was always so kind, so concerned, and yet was unmercifully stern and strict whenever my obstinacy revolted against his will.

One day I was with the children on the balcony, and my mistress had also come out for a moment. I sat busy with some mending, when all at once I felt somebody else was present. Without looking up I recognized the voice that I knew so well, and my heart beat faster. I thought that he would come and speak to me. He, however, did not do so, but spoke to my mistress. At that the blood mounted to my cheeks. "The coward," I said to myself; "he does not even dare to speak to me." I trembled with shame and rage, and nothing on earth could have induced me to look up. Their conversation was short and meaningless, and after a little while he prepared to go. He departed with a polite phrase from my mistress, and with a joke from the children; then I heard a door bang, and knew that he had gone.

I felt like crying with anger and sadness. Could it be that such a man was my friend? As soon as I had put the children to bed, I wrote a note asking him to return all my poems and letters, since I wished to discontinue our friendship, which I had only now found out had never been real friendship. I thought he would do at once as I wished, and was surprised not to hear from him. The days passed by, and after a whole week had passed the porter at last handed me a note.

"I should like to speak to you. Pray decide on time and place."

At first I was determined to send no reply whatever, and kept silent for two days; then I could stand it no longer, and wrote saying "when and where."

"What's the meaning of that?" he asked, producing my letter from his pocket; whereupon I began bitterly to reproach him. He did not interrupt me with a single syllable, and so I spoke on and on until I could say no more. "You are a child," he said at last, looking at me half sadly, half amused. His apparent indifference angered me anew.

"Pray," I said with great dignity, "when will you return my letters?"

His eyes blazed all of a sudden and his lips closed tightly.

"Never!"

"But they are my own letters."

"You are mistaken. The letters belong to me."

He had stopped in front of me, and his face wore the grave, decisive look that I knew so well. All my anger melted, and with a little sob I clung to him. He suffered it for a second only, then pulled himself together, and looked at his watch.

"It is time that you should go."

He spoke as coolly and politely as ever, but the look he gave me was a wondrous look, and when I went home, stunned as it were, my heart pondered on a new revelation, half sweetness and half sorrow.

Later on, I also made the acquaintance of his mother. She was such a gentle and ladylike woman that I should have adored her even if she had not been the mother of the man I loved. She spoke to me with great kindness whenever I met her, and told me one day that she had come across a lovely book, which she would be pleased to let me have if I cared for it. A little timid, but all the more determined, I pressed the button at her door next day. A smart-looking parlourmaid ushered me into the drawing-room. There the arrangement of the furniture and other things showed much taste and elegance, and I thought involuntarily of our own poor lodging at home, of the one room, wherein they all ate, slept, and wept together. The sound of footsteps made me forget that doleful picture. My lady smiled at me, asked a few simple questions, and soon we began to talk.

"I am rather ashamed," she said, pulling open a drawer, and taking out some pieces of paper, yellow from age, "but I can't help it. There are lots of things dating even from my girlhood, and I cannot make up my mind to throw them away."

After that she showed me newspaper cuttings of poems, dried flowers, and many other things, which she stroked softly while pointing out to me their value and meaning. When at length I prepared to go, she handed me the book which I had come for; it was a volume of poems by Mirza Schaffy.

That visit did not remain the only one. Many and many a time I sat with her in the cosily black-furnished drawing-room, and when she gazed at me with that singular, ambiguous look of hers, I often felt like burying my head in the dark silk robe on her lap and confiding to her all my sorrow and grief.

One day I received a letter from home, telling me that they were unable to find the money for the rent which fell due on January 1 (that was in a few days), and that all their things would be put out in the street. The letter worried me terribly; I had sent home small and large sums of money during the two years I had been at my post, but just then I did not possess any money worth mentioning. In my imagination I beheld my parents, sisters, and brothers, shelterless, in a dirty, stormy street, and so great was my despair that I cried all night.

In the morning an idea occurred to me that at first I found horrible and shameful. But it came again and again, grew stronger and stronger, and when it was time to take the children to school I hoped most devoutly to see my friend. Nor did I hope in vain.

"I must speak to you," I said, as soon as I caught sight of him.

He looked at me apprehensively.

"I am at your disposal."

"Not now," I answered, glancing at the children; "I must speak to you alone. Can you spare time on Sunday?"

"If there is anything the matter. Why not earlier?"

I felt immensely relieved.

"Then to-day?" I asked.

"Of course, whenever you like."

After that we appointed the time and place, and parted. But scarcely had he gone than I began to regret what I was about to do. The whole thing seemed to me almost madness.

What right had I to ask him for money? I felt so tortured, so miserable, and when the time of our appointment drew near, I decided not to go. Nor did I. Instead, I read that fatal letter over and over again. It was written by my father, and there was one passage that ran: "Mother is worn out with crying and fretting, and is not feeling well of late. What we are to do if we really have to move out into the street, I do not know. They would never take us into the alms-house, because we do not belong to Langenau at all."

I put my face on the table and wept bitterly. All at once I decided to do what I had meant to do, and looked at the clock. It was a whole hour late for the meeting we had arranged, and I could not expect to find him still waiting. Controlling my sorrows as well as I could, I went about my duty. That evening I was alone, my mistress having gone to the theatre, and after I had put the children to bed I grew so terribly anxious again—chiefly about my mother—that I decided to wait no longer. But what could I do? Surely he was not at home; and even if he happened to be in, could I go and ask for him? Though almost certain that it was perfectly useless to look for him, I went out on the balcony and noticed, half-mad with delight, a light burning in a little room situated one floor higher, where he used to develop photographs, to mend watches, and so forth. I walked upstairs, hardly conscious of what I was doing, and knocked at his door as softly as if I did not wish to be heard. He had heard me, however, and called "Come in," whereupon I pushed the door open and entered hesitatingly. Inside the room I pressed myself hard against the wall, and could not speak. He had laid aside his work at once, and looked at me with questioning eyes.

"Will you not speak?" he at length urged softly.

After that I told him my little tale in great haste, though sobs interrupted me. While telling him all, it occurred to me that after knowing my people's history so well he might not wish to be my friend any longer, and I gazed at him anxiously when I had finished. His face, however, relieved my fears. His eyes wore the thoughtful, apprehensive look that I had noticed several times before, and his lips smiled the kind, well-known smile.

"How much do you want?"

"Very, very much," I said blushingly.

"How much?" he urged.

"About a hundred shillings," I confessed, thinking that a hundred shillings was an enormous sum.

He put his hand on the handle of the door, and looked at me entreatingly.

"They might be looking for you, and you must go; the porter will hand you all you want to-morrow."

But I did not go. Pressing myself still harder against the wall, I looked up at him, and my lips trembled as I said:

"Are you cross with me for having asked you?"

"You are a child," he said with great decision; "let me tell you once and for all that I am your friend, to whom you not only may, but must, confide all your troubles"—his face wore the entreating look again—"but go now, please."

I obeyed as if I was in a dream.

The porter handed me an envelope the next morning, and when I tore it open I saw that it contained neatly folded bank-notes.

From that day onward I felt boundlessly grateful towards my friend, loved him, if such was possible, more than I had done before, and could hardly control my affection whenever we met. He, however, remained the same.

To him my poems were the sole and constant source of conversation, and perfect though I thought them, he was far from being satisfied.

Now and again he would acknowledge the beauty of a thought or verse, and the slightest praise from him was sweet reward to me.

There were, of course, still times when our opinions differed, when I grew sulky and obstinate, and even went so far as to behave with the rudeness of a naughty child. But he never lost his composure; it was generally his calmness and silence that made me conscious of my fault, and I never failed to beg his pardon as soon as I had realized that I was in the wrong.

He on his part was always ready to forgive me, and our friendship was established firmly once more.

But in my heart of hearts I was discontented.

"Why," I said to myself, "does he not tell me the one thing that alone is able to make a woman truly happy? Why does he not give me the slightest sign of his love? Or does he not love me?" That question made my limbs shake as if I had received a terrible shock, and many times I sat up in my bed at night staring, with my hands crossed tightly in the darkness around me.

Was there, perhaps, another girl of whom he thought, as I thought of him every hour of the day?

I shuddered at the inexpressible loneliness that would fall to my lot if such were the case, recalled every word, every look of his, and lay, testing, weighing, wondering, until all thoughts had merged into confusion and my eyelids closed.

One day we had arranged to meet alone. I was so impatient that I arrived half an hour before the time fixed for the appointment, but he was already waiting for me. Both of us had more time to spare on this day, and I hoped secretly that he might at last speak.

He did speak, but what he said was not what I had expected to hear. He told me of his boyhood, of his more mature years, and of a first love that had left him disappointed with life.

I listened to all without really realizing what he said, my head throbbed, my heart ached, recognizing one wish only.

"There is no need for him to change his manner towards me; all I want him to do is to let me know," said something within me. I stopped and, laying one hand on his arm, looked up at him in anguish.

"Tell me why you do so much for me?"

It seemed that his face grew pale and stern.

"Because I am your friend."

"And is that everything?" I asked again.

"Everything," he replied, shaking my hand off his arm.

After that I remained so still that I thought that I heard the beating of his heart and mine. But all at once a voice roused me, a voice that revealed to me new depths of his soul, a voice composed of torture and pain, which bridged the way back to happiness and joy.

"Do you really want to hear that phrase?" he said. "You are too good for it; I have made a vow never to remember that you are a woman."

I stood in silence by his side. My eyes looked into the far distance and my thoughts measured years to come—years during which we would give each other all the treasures of heart and soul without ever getting any the poorer—years during which neither of us would know the pangs of remorse, the blushing with shame—years during which I would suffer all that a woman may suffer.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered simply; and we grasped each other's hands in silence....

The time that followed now I can never describe. Our meetings, short though they were, were so filled with embarrassed happiness, with timid tenderness, that no colour, no brush, no pen, could ever do them full justice.

But there were hours of quite a different nature too. Hours when strange moods got hold of us—hours when he pulled himself up, just as if to shake off something—hours when his eyes lost their tranquil light, and looked dark and gloomy—hours when the beast was roused within him. Then I felt and understood vaguely the strength of his passion, and grew almost afraid of him. If he forgot his vow for a single moment only, then woe to our friendship and woe to me!