woman, is the highest triumph of love. Such thoughts must have passed through Yosef's head, for, looking at the slumbering Helena, he grew milder and milder, just as night passes into dawn; he inchned toward her, and touched her hand lightly with his lips.
Helena quivered, and, opening her eyes widely, smiled like a little child when the velvety kiss of its mother rouses it from sleep. That was the first time that Yosef came to her with a fondling so gentle and delicate; usually he came, if not severe, dignified; but to-day he had come to wipe out and forget at her feet the bitter impressions of the quarrel with Vasilkevich. He was seized gradually by the marvellous power of woman, under whose influence the muddy deposit of the soul sinks to the bottom of oblivion. But he was too greatly agitated not to let some of the bitterness which he felt a few moments earlier press through his words. He raised his head, looked into her eyes, and said,—
"Helena, it seems to me that I love thee very deeply; but the folly of people irritates my personality, challenges me. I should like to find strength in thee. Trust me, Helena, love me!"
