“If he knew that she loved him,” replied Cartoner, slowly.

Wanda turned and looked at him with an odd little laugh, and there were tears in her eyes.

“Oh! you may know that,” she said, suddenly descending from the uncertain heights of generality.  “You may be quite sure of that.  If that is what you want.”

“That is what I want.”

As he spoke he took her hand and slowly raised it to his lips.  She looked at his bent head, and when her eyes rested on the gray hairs at his temples, they lighted suddenly with a gleam which was strangely protecting and dimly maternal.

“I want you to go away from Warsaw,” she said.  “I would rather you went even if you say—­that you are afraid to stay.”

“I cannot say that.”

“Besides,” she added, with her head held high, “they would not believe you if you did.”

“I promise you,” he answered, “not to run any risks, to take every care.  But we must not see each other.  I may have to go away without seeing you.”

She gave a little nod of comprehension, and held her lips between her teeth.  She was looking towards the door; for she had heard voices in that direction.

“I should like,” she said, “to make you a promise in return.  It would give me great satisfaction.  Some day you may, perhaps, be glad to remember it.”

The voices were approaching.  It was Deulin’s voice, and he seemed to be speaking unnecessarily loud.

“I promise you,” said Wanda, with unfathomable eyes, “never to marry anybody else.”

And the door opened, giving admittance to Deulin, who was laughing and talking.  He came forward looking, not at Wanda and Cartoner, but at the clock.

“To your tents, O Israel!” he said.

Cartoner said good-night at once, and went to the door.  For a moment Deulin was left alone with Wanda.  He went to a side-table, where he had laid his sword-stick.  He took it up, and slowly turned it in his hand.

“Wanda,” he said, “remember me in your prayers to-night!”

XXII

THE WHITE FEATHER

It is to be presumed that the majority of people are willing enough to seek the happiness of others; which desire leads the individual to interfere in her neighbor’s affairs, while it burdens society with a thousand associations for the welfare of mankind or the raising of the masses.

Looking at the question from the strictly commonsense point of view, it would appear to the observer that those who do the most good or the least harm are the uncharitable.  Better than the eager, verbose man is he who stands on the shore cynically watching a landsman in a boat without proffering advice as to how the vessel should be navigated, who only holds out a cold and steady hand after the catastrophe has happened, or, if no catastrophe supervenes, is content to walk away in that silent wonder which the care of Providence for the improvident must ever evoke.