Sanine

Gently, caressingly, the dusk, fragrant with the scent of blossoms,

descended. Sanine sat at a table near the window, striving to read in

the waning light a favourite tale of his. It described the lonely,

tragic death of an old bishop, who, clad in his sacerdotal vestments

and holding a jewelled cross, expired amid the odour of incense.

In the room the temperature was as cool as that outside, for the soft

evening breeze played round Sanine's powerful frame, filling his lungs,

and lightly caressing his hair. Absorbed in his book, he read on, while

his lips moved from time to time, and he seemed like a big boy

devouring some story of adventures among Indians. Yet, the more he

read, the sadder became his thoughts. How much there was in this world

that was senseless and absurd! How dense and uncivilized men were, and

how far ahead of them in ideas he was!

The door opened and some one entered. Sanine looked up. "Aha!" he

exclaimed, as he shut the book, "what's the news?"

Novikoff smiled sadly, as he took the other's hand.

"Oh! nothing," he said, as he approached the window, "It's all just the

same as ever it was."

From where he sat Sanine could only see Novikoff's tall figure

silhouetted against the evening sky, and for a long while he gazed at

him without speaking.

When Sanine first took his friend to see Lida, who now no longer

resembled the proud, high-spirited girl of heretofore, neither she nor

Novikoff said a word to each other about all that lay nearest to their

hearts. He knew that, after having spoken, they would be unhappy, yet

doubly so if they kept silence. What to him was plain and easy they

could only accomplish, he felt sure, after much suffering. "Be it so,"

thought he, "for suffering purifies and ennobles." Now, however, the

propitious moment for them had come.

Novikoff stood at the window, silently watching the sunset. His mood

was a strange one, begotten of grief for what was lost, and of longing

for joy that was near. In this soft twilight he pictured to himself

Lida, sad, and covered with shame. If he had but the courage to do it,

this very moment he would kneel before her, with kisses warm her cold

little hands, and by his great, all-forgiving love rouse her to a new

life. Yet the power to go to her failed him.

Of this Sanine was conscious. He rose slowly, and said, "Lida is in the garden. Shall we go to her?"