“Olga, Olga!” were his first tender words.
She started, looked at him with an air of astonishment, and turned away. He followed her.
“You are weeping?” he said.
“Yes, and’ is you have made me do so,” she replied, while her form shook with sobs. “But it is beyond your power to comfort me.”
“That miserable letter!” he ejaculated, suddenly becoming full of remorse.
For answer she opened a basket which she was carrying, took from it the letter, and handed it to him.
“Take it away,” she said. “The sight of it will only make me weep more bitterly.”
He stuffed it silently into his pocket, and, with head bent, seated himself beside her.
“Give me credit for good intentions,” he urged. “In any case the letter was evidence only of my care for your happiness—of the fact that I was thinking of it in advance, and was ready to sacrifice myself on its account. Do you think that I wrote the message callously—that inwardly I was not shedding tears the whole time? Why should I have acted as I did?”
“Why, indeed?” she interrupted. “For the reason that you wished to surprise me here, and to see whether I was weeping, and how bitterly. Had you really meant the letter as you say, you would be making preparations to go abroad instead of meeting me as you are now doing. Last night you wanted my ‘I love you’; to-day you want to see my tears; and to-morrow, I daresay, you will be wishing that I were dead!”