"I heard a window open--there in the house in the rear; people see me from there. I--I want to go back to the house. I cannot bear it, father," whimpers she. She wishes to free herself from him by force. Then there is a ring of the door-bell. Mascha stands still. Who is it? Is not that Nita who asks for her?
Yes! The door leading into the garden opens; Nita enters, pale, weary, but with beaming eyes. She catches the child in her arms. "Maschenka," whispers she, "all is well. I have only come before to prepare you; in a few minutes he is here and begs you for forgiveness."
Maschenka's eyes grow staring. She clutches her temples with both hands.
"Do not faint, my darling; there is no time now for that," whispers Nita, anxiously.
"No--no." Mascha looks shamefacedly at her white wrapper.
Nita unties a black lace fichu from her neck, and binds it round the child's neck; then she smooths her hair.
The house-door opens; a cry, the old, soft bird-cry which Lensky loved so, only stronger than formerly, full of piercing, painful sweetness, with wide, outstretched arms, Mascha rushes past Nita, past her father, into the house.
Nita wishes to go. Lensky holds her back. "You have done that--you--for me," said he, "and you will not even give me time to thank you?"
"I do not deserve any thanks--it all arranged itself!" murmurs she.
"So!" he smiled bitterly. "I know how it would have arranged itself without you."