Ogneff again kissed the old man. When he reached the last step, he turned his head and said —
“I wonder shall we ever meet again.”
“God knows,” answered Kuznetsoff. “Probably never.”
“I fear so. Nothing will lure you to Petersburg, and it is not likely that I shall ever return to these parts. Good-bye!”
“But leave your books,” called Kuznetsoff after him. “Why carry such a weight? My man will bring them to-morrow.”
But Ogneff, who had not heard him, walked quickly away. Warmed with wine, his heart was full at the same time of sorrow and joy. He walked forward reflecting how often in life we meet such kindly men and women, how sad it is that they leave but memories behind. It is as on a journey. The traveller sees on the flat horizon the outline of a crane; the weak wind bears its plaintive cry; yet in a moment it is gone; and strain his eyes as he may towards the blue distance, he sees no bird, and hears no sound. So in the affairs of men, faces and voices tremble a moment before us, and slip away into the gone-before, leaving behind them nothing but the vain records of memory. Having been every day at hearty Kuznetsoff^s house since he arrived that spring at N., Ogneff had come to know and love as kinsmen the old man, his daughter, their servants.
