The little girl raised Marynia’s hand to her lips a second time; her head fell on the pillow, and she lay for a while with closed lids; after some time, however, two tears flowed down her cheeks. Then followed a longer silence; the rain was beating against the window-panes. Pan Stanislav and Marynia were sitting motionless without looking at each other; both felt, however, that their fates had been decided that night, but they were as if dazed by what had happened. In the chaos of thought and feelings neither of them knew how to note or indicate what was passing within them. In that silence, which was kept instinctively, lest perchance they might look each other in the eyes, hour followed hour. The clock struck midnight, then one; about two Pani Emilia slipped in like a shadow.
“Is she sleeping?” inquired she.
“No, mamma,” answered Litka.
“Art thou well?”
“Well, mamma.”
And when Pani Emilia sat near her bed, the little one embraced her neck; and, nestling her yellow head at her breast, she said,—
“I know now, mamma, that when a sick child begs for anything, people never refuse.”
And she nestled up to her mother some time yet; then, drawing out each word as sleepy children do, or very tired ones, she said,—
“Pan Stas will not be sad any more; and I will tell mamma why—”
But here her head became heavy on her mother’s breast, and Pani Emilia felt the cold sweat coming on the hands of the child, as well as on her temples.