coming. A great ruddy moon was rolling up from beyond the Dnieper. In the dense alleys of the police garden steps were heard here and there, from an open window in an adjoining pavilion came the tones of a piano; a youthful, feeble voice was singing a song of Schubert, the tones quivered in the warm air; far, far out on the steppe some one was sounding the horn of a post-wagon.
"A beautiful night," said Helena, in a low voice. "Why art thou gloomy, Yosef?"
"Let us sit a little," said he. "I am tired."
They sat there, and leaning shoulder to shoulder were both somewhat pensive. They were roused on a sudden from meditation by a youthful, resonant voice, which said,—
"True, Karol! The greatest happiness is the genuine love of a woman, if it is an echo to the voice of a real manly soul."
Two young people arm in arm passed slowly near the bench on which Yosef and Helena were sitting.
"Good evening!" said both, removing their hats.
They were Vasilkevich and Karol Karvovski.
When Yosef parted with the widow that evening, he held her hand to his lips for a long time, and went home late, greatly agitated.
