knocking at the door. The old, faithful, superstitious servants should mutter the saying: "Some one has hanged himself, the wind is so high," and the dogs should howl together mournfully.
There is no light save in one window, by which, through the broad chinks in the shutters, its bright streaks filter out into the park. The maids are there, keeping vigil as usual; Janusz and the old man have gone to bed and have long been asleep.
Around there breathes that stillness and quiet sense of security which a winter night is wont to bring with it—an atmosphere of repose.
I am kneeling by the fire, in a plain dressing-gown, with my hands clasped behind my head, and my eyes fixed upon the flames. Flashes of red light up my dark face and my chestnut hair. Now and then I put big logs on the fire from the heap close at hand; I like to resemble a vestal virgin.
Martha, partly undressed and without her corset, lies dejectedly smoking a cigarette on a rose-coloured couch, not looking in my direction.
She absent-mindedly strokes a cat, which
