But then the month of March arrived . . . the spring sunshine was more kindly. . . .  Our ice-hill turned dark, lost its brilliance and finally melted.  We gave up tobogganning.  There was nowhere now where poor Nadenka could hear those words, and indeed no one to utter them, since there was no wind and I was going to Petersburg —­for long, perhaps for ever.

It happened two days before my departure I was sitting in the dusk in the little garden which was separated from the yard of Nadenka’s house by a high fence with nails in it. . . .  It was still pretty cold, there was still snow by the manure heap, the trees looked dead but there was already the scent of spring and the rooks were cawing loudly as they settled for their night’s rest.  I went up to the fence and stood for a long while peeping through a chink.  I saw Nadenka come out into the porch and fix a mournful yearning gaze on the sky. . . .  The spring wind was blowing straight into her pale dejected face. . . .  It reminded her of the wind which roared at us on the ice-hill when she heard those four words, and her face became very, very sorrowful, a tear trickled down her cheek, and the poor child held out both arms as though begging the wind to bring her those words once more.  And waiting for the wind I said in a low voice: 

“I love you, Nadya!”

Mercy!  The change that came over Nadenka!  She uttered a cry, smiled all over her face and looking joyful, happy and beautiful, held out her arms to meet the wind.

And I went off to pack up. . . .

That was long ago.  Now Nadenka is married; she married—­whether of her own choice or not does not matter—­a secretary of the Nobility Wardenship and now she has three children.  That we once went tobogganning together, and that the wind brought her the words “I love you, Nadenka,” is not forgotten; it is for her now the happiest, most touching, and beautiful memory in her life. . . .

But now that I am older I cannot understand why I uttered those words, what was my motive in that joke. . . .

A COUNTRY COTTAGE

Two young people who had not long been married were walking up and down the platform of a little country station.  His arm was round her waist, her head was almost on his shoulder, and both were happy.

The moon peeped up from the drifting cloudlets and frowned, as it seemed, envying their happiness and regretting her tedious and utterly superfluous virginity.  The still air was heavy with the fragrance of lilac and wild cherry.  Somewhere in the distance beyond the line a corncrake was calling.

“How beautiful it is, Sasha, how beautiful!” murmured the young wife.  “It all seems like a dream.  See, how sweet and inviting that little copse looks!  How nice those solid, silent telegraph posts are!  They add a special note to the landscape, suggesting humanity, civilization in the distance. . . .  Don’t you think it’s lovely when the wind brings the rushing sound of a train?”