"Anton, dearest, you have come at last. But I
am not going to scold. I am so glad that you have come, my own one!"
While she was yet speaking, he brought her back into the room,
supporting her with his arm round her waist; and when the door was
closed he stood over her still holding her up, and looking down into
her face, which was turned up to his. "Why do you not speak to me,
Anton?" she said. But she smiled as she spoke, and there was nothing
of fear in the tone of her voice, for his look was kind, and there was
love in his eyes.
He stooped down over her, and fastened his lips upon her forehead. She
pressed herself closer against his shoulder, and shutting her eyes, as
she gave herself up to the rapture of his embrace, told herself that
now all should be well with them.
"Dear Nina," he said.
"Dearest, dearest Anton," she replied.
And then he asked after her father; and the two sat together for a
while, with their knees almost touching, talking in whispers as to the
condition of the old man. And they were still so sitting, and still so
talking, when Nina rose from her chair, and put up her forefinger with
a slight motion for silence, and a pretty look of mutual interest--as
though Anton were already one of the same family; and, touching his
hair lightly with her hand as she passed him, that he might feel how
delighted she was to be able so to touch him, she went back to the door
of the bedroom on tiptoe, and, lifting the latch without a sound, put
in her head and listened.
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