THE SWEET-SCENTED NAME
Simple happiness was all around. The broad shadowy glades of the scented pine-forest were cool and dreamy, the tender moss underfoot was soft and warm. All was as it had been on other days. Only the birds had ceased to sing—they had nested and flown away with their little ones.
But there had been a shadow on the countenance of her beloved—he had received an unpleasant letter that morning.
As he himself said:
"A dreadfully unpleasant letter. I am desperate. So many days before I see you again!"
"How is that?" she had said. Sadness had not yet touched her.
"My father writes to say that my mother is ill and that I ought to go home."
His father had written something quite different—but Nadezhda Alexevna did not know that. She had not yet learnt that it is possible to be deceived in love, that the lips that kiss may speak lies instead of truth.
With his arms around her and his lips kissing hers he had said:
"I must go, there's nothing else to do. How lonely I shall be! I can't think any- thing serious is the matter, but I shall be obliged to go."
122
