“She talks, too, of Litka,” said Marynia, in conclusion, “as if the child had not died, and as if she should see her to-morrow.”
“That is happy,” answered Pan Stanislav. “Vaskovski rendered tangible service; such a nail in the head gives no pain.”
“Still, she is right, for it is so.”
“I will not contradict you.”
Marynia was alarmed, it is true, by the persistence with which Pani Emilia returned to one thought; but on the other hand she herself did not look on death otherwise. Hence that tinge of scepticism, evident in Pan Stanislav’s words, touched her a little, and pained her; but, not wishing to let this be evident, she changed the conversation.
“I gave directions to enlarge Litka’s photograph,” said she. “Yesterday they brought me three copies; one I will give Emilia. I feared at first that it would excite her too much, but now I see that I may give it; nay, more, it will be very dear to her.”
She rose then, and went to a bookcase on which were some photographs in a wrapper; these she took, and, sitting at Pan Stanislav’s side before a small table, opened them.
“Emilia told me of a certain talk which you had with Litka a short time before her death, when the child wished you three to be birches growing near one another. Do you remember that talk?”
“I do. Litka wondered that trees live so long; she thought awhile what kind of tree she would like to be, and the birch pleased her most.”
“True; and you said that you would like to grow near by, therefore, around these photographs I wish to paint birches on a passe-partout. Here I have begun, you see, but I have no great success. I cannot paint from memory.”