"Yes?" said Barbara inquiringly.
"To me the fairest place is wherever you happen to be. Do I make myself clear, dearest Barbara, or shall I say more?"
Barbara tried to speak, but the words would not come. There was no need for speech, however. A light that would have made the plainest features beautiful stole over her face. She placed her little hand within his, and by that act Paul knew that she was his for ever.
He drew her to his embrace, where she reclined supremely happy and yet afraid to raise her eyes to his.
"Barbara," he whispered, "you have never yet told me the story of your life. Will you not do so now?"
There was nothing Barbara would not have done to please Paul. She was silent for a few moments, as if collecting her thoughts, and then, still within the circle of his arms, she began in a voice as low and silvery as if coming from dreamland.
"If I have been truly told, I was born at Warsaw in 1826, and shall therefore be nineteen years of age next month.
"My parents I never knew; indeed I am even ignorant of their names and station in life. I had been adopted in infancy by a noble Polish lady, the Countess Lorenska,—a youthful widow, who, although kindness itself, was always mute to any remark relative to my parentage, though, as you may guess, the question as to my origin troubled me but little in those early days.
"The Countess Lorenska was very rich, her mansion at Warsaw a palace, and the ladies and gentlemen who attended her salons vied with each other in caressing and spoiling me. I had all that wealth could supply, including learned masters, under whose tuition I began that course of instruction which you have characterized as peculiar for a woman.
"My adoptive mother, herself well educated, superintended my studies, but the lesson she seemed chiefly desirous of inculcating is contained in almost the first sentence I was taught to utter,—'I will always love Poland and the Catholic Church. I will never cease to oppose Russia and the Greek Faith.' This vow was part of my prayers morning and evening, and such is the force of habit that I still continue to say it.