"Good-morning, you mean, not good-night,--good-morning."
Either I am blind and deaf or her eyes and voice expressed: "I love
you, I love you."
I do the same--almost.
My aunt looking at us gave a low grunt of contentment. I saw tears
shining in her eyes.
To-morrow we leave here for Ploszow.
PLOSZOW, 5 February.
This is my second day in the country. We had a splendid drive. The
weather was clear and frosty. The snow creaked under the runners of
the sledge and glittered and sparkled in the fields. Towards sunset
the vast plain assumed pink and purple shades. The rooks, cawing and
flapping their wings, flew in and out the lime trees. Winter, the
strong, homely winter, is a beautiful thing. There is a certain vigor
in it, and dignity, and what is more, so much sincerity. Like a true
friend, who, regardless as to consequences, hurls cutting truths,
it smites you between the eyes without asking leave. By way of
compensation it bestows upon you some of its own vigor. We were all
of us glad to leave the town--the elder ladies, that their pet scheme
might be brought to a climax by closer companionship; I, because I was
near Aniela; she, maybe for the same reason, felt happy too. She bent
down several times to kiss my aunt's hands, apropos of nothing, out
of sheer content. She looked very pretty in a long, fluffy boa and
a coquettish fur cap, from under which the dark eyes and the almost
childish face peeped forth.
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