“Very long; some of them live a thousand years.”
“Oh, I would like to be a tree. And which does mamma like best?”
“The birch.”
“Then I would like to be a little birch; and mamma would be a big birch, and we should grow together. And would Pan Stas like to be a birch?”
“If I could grow somewhere not far from the little birch.”
Litka looked at him shaking her head somewhat sadly, said,—
“Oh, no! I know all now; I know near what birch Pan Stas would like to grow.”
Marynia was confused, and dropped her eyes on her work; Pan Stanislav began to stroke lightly with his palm the little blond head, and said,—
“My dear little kitten, my dear, my—my—”
Litka was silent; from under her long eyelids flowed two tears, and rolled down her cheeks. After a while, however, she raised her sweet face, radiant with a smile,—