“No, Litus; he would love us always just the same.”
“But would he love Marynia?”
“Marynia would be nearer to him than we. Why dost thou ask about this so, thou kitten?”
“Is it wrong?”
“No, there is nothing wrong in it, nothing at all; only I am afraid that thou wilt weary thyself.”
“Oh, no! I am always thinking of Pan Stas anyhow. But mamma mustn’t tell Marynia about this.”
With these words ended the conversation, after which Litka held silence for a number of days, only she looked more persistently than before at Marynia. Sometimes she took her hand and turned her eyes to the young woman, as if wishing to ask something. Sometimes when Marynia and Pan Stanislav were near by, she gazed now on her, now on him, and then closed her lids. Often they came daily, sometimes a number of times in the day, wishing to relieve Pani Emilia, who permitted no one to take her place in the night at Litka’s bedside; for a week she had been without rest at night, sleeping only a little in the day, when Litka herself begged her to do so. Still Pani Emilia was not conscious of the whole danger which threatened the little girl; for the doctor, not knowing what that crisis of the disease would be, whether a step in advance merely, or the end, pacified the mother the more decisively because Pan Stanislav begged him most urgently to do so.
She had a feeling, however, that Litka’s condition was not favorable, and, in spite of assurances from the doctor, her heart sank more than once from alarm. But to Litka she showed always a smiling and joyous face, just as did Pan Stanislav and Marynia; but the little girl had learned already to observe everything, and Pani Emilia’s most carefully concealed alarm did not escape her.
Therefore on a certain morning, when there was no one in her room but Pan Stanislav, who was occupied with inflating for her a great globe of silk, which he had brought as a present, the little girl said,—
“Pan Stas, I see sometimes that mamma is very anxious because I am sick.”