“Yes,” replied Grania.
“So do I,” said Tioka; and their friendship was sealed.
Count Kamarowsky and I were less prompt in discovering a community of tastes such as that which so quickly linked our two children together. This grave silent man in his widower's garb was almost a stranger to me. As we parted he asked permission to call. But on the following day a telegram from my father summoned me to Otrada. My mother was ill and desired my presence.
XXIII
It was a hurried departure and an anxious journey. We arrived late in the evening at my father's house. He came to meet us at the gate, tall and solemn, his white hair stirred by the wind. He kissed me without speaking and laid his hand on Tioka's head.
“Mother—?” I scarcely dared to inquire.
“Better. She is better. She has improved greatly since she knew you were coming.”
Tioka had hurriedly kissed his grandfather's hand, and now was hastening up the great staircase to see his grandmother, to whom he was passionately attached. Soon his rippling laughter and his nimble footsteps could be heard all over the house, and my mother said that the happiness of it had well-nigh cured her.
It was scarcely daybreak next morning when Tioka came to call me to go down with him into the garden.