The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 26, 1904, Page 5

THE SAN FRANCISCO SUNDAY CALL. occupation as tutor and my desire to see Katia. I wrote a brief formal note to Katia, without giving my real name, stating that I was a student in the uni- wersity who desired to ¢o some tutor- ing, mentioning the branches which I felt competent to teach, and explain- ing that I was writing her becapse I understood that she desired instruction in one of these subjects. Two days later the answer came. She desired a tutor in German, she wrote—in fact, she had just applied for one at the university; so she would be glad indeed to talk with me and per- haps arrange to give her the desired lessons. CHAPTER V. I SEE WITHOUT BEING SEEN. The following day I ascended the steps of the Bialnick mansion with a quivering heart. A footman immedi- ately answered my ring, ushered me into 2 sumptuously furnished room, and disappeared with my card. A few minutes later a side door opened. Katia! At sight of her I trembled so that I could hardly keep . my feet. Katia! Kana at last! The same Katia, but so grown, so changed. In my dreams of her all these years I had always seen her as a slight girl in a short frock, with her hair hanging down her back. Now she stood before me a young woman. The slight figure had matured; her gown swept the floor; the luxurious halr was coiled at the back of her head. But her lumi- nous eyes, of no particular color, but rather a mixture of many colors, were the same, and her soft smile was the same, thing when she came in, and I could see she was as graceful, as sweet as ever. I steadied myself with my hands up- on the back of a chair, and wondered if she would recognize me. But T had changed In the years of our separation more than she had. She greeted me as an absolute stranger. “Is this Mr. Russakoff?" she asked In her low, sweet voice. I acknowledged my name with a bow. I could not trust myself to speak. But I immediately gained control of myself and we proceeded to businéss. After we had arranged the hours of ruction, price and books, I re- marked: “I ought to inform you, per- haps, at the outset, that I am a Jew. Perhaps you have objections to my race?” “Mr. Russakoff, your question sur- me,” she answered. “Why, my r is known as a friend of the Jews. elf"—here she laughed softly sh crept down her neck—“my dearest playmate when I was a little girl was a Jewish boy.” At -this the control I was trying so hard to maintain almost left me. I gripped myself and said with a show of calmness: “I did not know how you ; some people are so narrow-minded so prejudiced”; and I told her of recent experien “That is a shame!” she cried indig- And then, as if to express her she added: “It is, of course, ural for me to like the Jews on ac- count of my early intimacy.” For a moment I was tempted to dis- close my identity, but I obeyed the ad- vice of prudence to remain unknown. I soon left her and repaired imme- diately to my scantily furnished room. She recalled our edrly romance as a mere childish fancy, while with me it had matured into a deep-rooted affec- tion. I now realized more than ever how deeply I loved her. But what a gulf there was now be- tween us! We were no longer boy and girl, I told myself, with the natural impulses of childhood. She was now a charming woman of high social posi- tion, and I—a vagabond, a poor devil of a student, with nothing to inspire or charm her. True, she had called me brother when I was & mere tramp, a wandering little gipsy, but that was many years ago; true, she still remem- bered me, but to her I was only a pleasant memeory. That was all I was to her—a pleasant memory—a bit of recollection of playful childhood. This change of thought brought the images of her father ana my father to my mind. I shuddered—the blood of Judge Blalnick was flowing in her veins. The consciousness of my race, of my faith (little as it was), of the duty I owed to my innocent father, stirred my blood and woke my calm nature. I ought to think only of vengeance. I ought to abandon my wild plan and see Katia no more! But when the decision was half made my heart was torn with anguish and an irresistible desire to see her—just to see her and hear the cadence of her voice again—that and no more; just to be near her and feel her presence—nothing further; just to be her teacher without ever breathing to her the secret of my heart—that was all I wished. CHAPTER VL CUPID'S ARROWS. When I called to give my pupil her first lesson I found her father present. A chiver passed through me as he grasped my hand. He eyed me so in- tently that I thought he had recognized me, but his remark that followed con- vinced me that be hid not. “It is rather strange, Mr. Russakoff,” he sald, “that there is a close resem- blance among intellectual Jews. At the first glance I thought I had met you before.” I made an evasive remark, and he chatted on, asking about my native town, my parents, my previous studies; to most of which questions, I am sorry to record, I gave false replies in order to avoid suspicion. o As he sat talking in his big armchalr I watched him furtively. The change in him was almost startling; his hair and beard were fast turning white, and there was & perceptible nervousness in his movements; even the hue of his skin had changed. His eyelids drooped frequently, and there was a certain fath As to for she was smiling at some- ° laxity, like that of extreme indolence, in his speech and gestures. Every few minutes he nervously passed his hand over his eyes, an act which I soon per- celved had become with him a habit. 1 found myself speechless in his pres- ence. I was surprised at myself. I had always told myself that when chance brought us together I would de- nounce him and take vengeance; but now that I was in his presence I feit no anger—instead, I pitied him. I could easily see that he constantly suffered great pain, that he was a phy- sical wreck; and it was obvious that he suffered mental agony no less intense than the physical. For the time, com- passion banished my hatred. I continued giving Katia lessons four times a week without so much as be- traying a sign of my identity. Occa- sionally we would drift off the lesson to the discussion of other matters. We talked of history, of novels, of poetry, of characters in fiction. I often won- dered where I got the phrases and pic- turesque descriptions which I used in making my ideas clear to her. I simply drew inspiration from her to give it back to her. Sometimes her look would thrill me; then I would drop my eyes, and when again I raised them I would see her cheeks suffused with blushes and her own eyes burning with inténse emotion. I would wonder if that show of feeling was induced vy our talk—or was it an indication that she cared for me? I realized that I was a nobody, and therefore she could not care for me; and yet how kindly, how sympa- thetically she treated me—me, a vaga- bond, a son of the hated race, a child of persecution! I was playing with fire. I knew it, and yet I loved to be burned. I'would feel happy and miserable at the same time. I would become possessed at once with jealousy and hatred of my- self for harboring that jealousy. I rea- soned that if she now loved me—Ivan Petrowitech Russakoff—she had forgot- ten Israel Yudelowitch Abramowiteh, and I could not bear the idea that she did not love my old self. One afternoon 1 gave her my inter- pretation of Heine's “Traumbilder, IL" I read with'all the glow and enthus- fasm with which this bard, yhose soul I understood better than that of any other poet, has always Inspired me. I forgot my sorrows in feeling his. His words seemed to me Iltke drops of honey dripping from a poisoned honey- comb. His heart was polsoned with the same venom that embittered my own. I have always imagined when reading Heine that when he laughed tears were trickling down his cheeks, and when he cried a smile of defiance and irony played around the deep cor- ners of his mouth. ‘While I read, Katia sat with her lus- trous eyes fixed upon me. She did not once stir. She seemed as much pos- sessed by this magnificent lyric as I was. “Read it again, Gospodin Russakoff,” she asked, sighing deeply, when I had finished the last line. “You speak like a poet yourself, and how your eyes change from their steady brown to pitch black! You remind me of Israel, the Jewish boy I told you of,” she added, smiling faintly. “I almost fear you when you read as you have done— your eyes look so strange when you are aroused.” “You must not be afrald of me,” I said, thrown into throbbing confusion by her words. “I am too weak to hurt anybody.” The night following that afternoon I lay a long time awake, my mind a prey to incoherent thoughts and memories. “How your eyes change from their steady brown to pitch black” passed through my mind again and again. 1 had never noticed the color of my eyes. She had. What could it mean? “You remind me of Israel, the Jewish boy I told you of.” I again recalled her words. Evidently the memory of that boy was still sweet to her, and evident- 1y she was interested in me. My heart almost leaped out of my breast at the thought. I was near falling asleep from mere mental exhaustion; my mind was rav- ing already—just a wink from uncon- sciousness—when in the blank darkness of my chamber the form of a female shaped itself before me. Thick, light- brown hair with a silky gloss, brilllant- ly smiling eyes, an exquisitely shaped mouth with deep corners, fine arched eyebrows, a fine bosom—it eremained but a moment, then gradually faded away, and in its place the small golden crucifix which Katia wore suspended from a fine gold chain around her neck grew larger and larger until it assumed the shape and size of a female form. A minute later the flgure of a woman again appeared, and again it vanished, and that little golden cross was meta- morphosed into the form of a person, and—behold! the features were mine. ©Oh, that Ilittle golden cross! What pangs and mortification it added to my wounded heart! As soon as I would begin to think of Katia (and when did I not think of her?) that tiny cress, as if by magle, would appear befors my fancy, swaying to and fro and growing larger and larger until it assumed the size and proportions of a human form with my own features. ‘Weeks passed by. The hope that had sprung up within me was soon suc- ceeded by doubt, by thoughts of my own insignificance. Of course I loved her madily—loved her as no one else had ever loved, I thought. But I had also been In love many times with the brilliant stars that shone on a serene frosty night. And was I not as far from my beloved Katia as I was from the stars? “I, a poor vagabond, a strug- gling student who earned his bread by giving lessons and scribbling lyrics at a penny a line, a wandering Jew hated and scorned by all, without a place to call home—have I the right to love Katia and drag her down to my level— her who, besides her social position, is in every respect superior to me I would ask myself. “But have I no right to love her, NS though she is =0 much above me?” I would demand in behalf of my passion. “Must the poor’s right to love be re- stricted, just as are all his other priv- ileges, and confined within a narrow compass?” And anger would swell my breast against all the rich people of the world, as if they had taken sides against me. “She may not reciprocate my love—that is as she will. I only Justify my right to love her.” But if she was to learn that I loved her, T told myself, she would discharge me immediately. Dismissal I could not stand. I would rather a thousand times over suffer the pangs of an un- told love than be sent away from her. Her servant—her slave—I cared not what my position w so long as I could continue to see her. In ome of our talks I casually touched the history of the Jews in Spain, the pages of which are aflame with fire and blood. I must have talked with no little fervor and enthusiasm, for I no- ticed tears sparkling In the eyes of my pupil. I asked whether I had hurt her feelings. She only smiled in response, but a minute later she said in her sweet, sympathetic voice: “It must have hurt you to speak of it, Mr. Rus- sakoff. How your eyes changed!” After that lesson I went home like a somnambulist. I recall a collision with something or somebody, and that some- body muttered: “It is really a shame to have drunkards stagger through the Next I remember my head met with something as bulky and as hard as mine, and the owner of it grumbled, “Bolshay durak (big fool) and then I remember, as through a mist, myself seated on the old sofa in my room, my head between my hands, looking fixedly upon the head of a nail in my carpetless floor. I cannot tell how long I studied that object before a Jolly laugh, which sounded queer in my ears, interrupted my reflection, and a hand shook me by the shoulder rather violently. I looked up and recognized Ephraim Razovskl. “You must have a nightmare,” laughed Razovsk! agzin, slapping me on the shoulder. “I rapped on your door more than etiquette permits, but you were evidently so absorbed in your dreams that you did not hear me at all. So I ventured to open the door myself, for I saw the key sticking on the in- side. Wake up, comrade! You must not dream in your fur coat.” Again he laughed a hearty, sonorous peal. “You are perhaps dreaming of writ- ing for the Morning Star an article against assimilation, you Orientalist, you Ghetto mystic,” he continued, having received no answer from me. “You always come out with your bosh about the glorious Jewish past, their wonderful history and their philosophic monotheism, and so forth, and so on. Can't we look into the face of truth and realize that the world is waiting for us to assimilate if we just say the word? Wake up, you dreamer!” And he slapped me on the shoulder again. “There must be something wrong with you,” Razovski continued, shak- ing me by my long hair. “Wake up, Israel (he always called me by my Jewish name). If it is love, a night's rest and sound sleep will readily cure you of it. I fell in love at least a score of times, and every time I thought I would not be able to survive it, and in spite of that I lived long enough to fall in love with spme other ‘best girl in the world." He shook my head in both his hands and examined my face playfully. “I surmised correctly,” he laughed. “Your absent-mindedness and these blue rings betray you. Indeed, you are more sensitive than I thought; this is only a momentary sickness. Once I be- lieved that a person could love one girl only, and if that one rejected him he should seize the first knife he could get and send his soul to the petter world. My “twenty-six years of experience, however, have taught me differently. If you are in love with a girl and she is indifferent to you, seize the first op- portunity and fall in love with another. This is the best cure I can recommend as a layman. Ha'ha! ha! Isn’t that a good prescription for a lawyer?"” ““Well, good night, comrade,” he sald after a few moments of silence. “T just dropped in to see you. It is getting dark and T have yet a lot of work to do. ‘Well, good night. I will let you dream of your best girl,” and he slammed the door after him. CHAPTER VIL A GREAT EVENT. The next day was che ever-memora- ble March 13, 1881—the date of the as- sassination of Alexander II. The bomb which exploded in St. Petersburg shook the entire empire. Immediately the whole nation was In mournng; the theaters were closed, music was for- bidden, every place of amusement was desolated. The very air was filled with sadness and fear; every heart trembi=d with consternation, for even a loud laugh was regarded suspiciously. The student element feared tne most, for the students were known as the chief conspirators. Following the murder, they were arrested everywhere on the slightest shadow of suspicion; thou- sands were imprisoned during that month. Close watch was kept over all the students, and the least suspicion or denunciation was sufficlent to throw a student Into prison, pernaps never to come out again. People in the streets did not talk above a whisper. One heard of nothing but arrests. That night I sat in my room trying to study, but could not fix my mind upon my books. The news of the murder of the Czar and a fear that in some man- ner the Jews would be made scapegoats had unnerved me. I moved restlessiy about my room, stirring my fire, peer- ing out of my window at the snow- sheeted roofs, listening to the passage of crunching footsteps and tinkling sleigh bells. ; About midnight there was a gentle knock on my door. 1 jumped up with i & ‘8o, oy \F IS a palpitating heart (though I knew the knock was too gentle for the police) and turned the kncb. A short, stocky man wearing glasses stood before me. He was Mr. Levinski, a gifted journal- ist with whom I had become ac- quainted through Ephral Mr. Levinskl entered, le and shiv- ering. *“No time to stop,” he whispered hurriedly. “I have just come to warn you. Razovskl has been arrested. BEx- amine . your books—quick. The police are ransacking the whole city. BEight Jewish students-have been arrested. Good night.” And he closed the door behind him. 1 bolted the door and examined every scrap of paper I had in my trunk. I burned all the letters I had ever re- ceived from Razovskl and some manu- scripts that might be construed in a manner to throw suspieion upon me. I thought I had nothing to be afraid of, and a little later I tested the lock of my door and crept into bed. I had scarcely settled myself for sleep when three blows against the door made the walls of the house shake. “In the name of the law, thundered a voice. I leaped out of bed and unlocked the door. Four officers entered. “Is your name Ivan Petrowitch Rus- sakoff?” demanded the leader. 1 said that was my name. “Do you know a student by the name of Razoyski?" I was asked abruptly. “Yes.” “Did you have any communication with him?” I said that we had exchanged some friendly letters. “When did you first get acquainted with him?” I explained to him. “Do you have any relations in St. Petersburg by the name of Russa- koff?” I told him that I was an orphan agd that I did not know of my relatives, nor in fact did I know whether I had any. “Search the room,” commanded the chief to his subordinates. Every nook was ransacked. They even threw my pillows out of their cases. But noth- ing suspicious was found. “What are these short lines?” de- manded the chief pointing at a manu- script poem, without reading it. “It is a poem,” I said. what?"” “A poem,” I repeated. “Well, you'll have to explain to the chief of the detective bureau what a poem is,” he replied with a burst of laughter. And ordering me to appear before the chief, he and the other offi- cers departed. The relief I felt at thelr departure can be easily imagined. While they had been ransacking my room I saw the prison gates yawning to receive me. I went to bed, not to sleep, but to wonder fearfully what changes the next few days might bring. Presently there came a third knock- ing at my door—this time so gently that I could scarcely hear it. I held my breath. Everything was still; only the buzzing of the burning lamp was heard. I feared to answer the knock, g0 I rose on my elbow and stared in terror in the direction of the door. “Israel!” came through the keyhole in a husky veice. “Who is it?"” I asked. “‘Open.” I opened the door and started back a step or two. A large, bearded muz- hik, in a sheepskin hat and fur cloak, girdled by a red belt, stood in the doorway. Warning me by a gesture to keep silent, he bolted the door behind him. In another instant the beard and hat were thrown off and I beheld Dolgoff. “Razovski is in the net,” he said In a low, tremblous voice. “As usual, I escaped,” he added with a faint smile. ““I came to you for help.” I answered nothing. “Not for me; I am safe,” he contin- ued. “Razovskl’s friend, Judge Bial- nick, is in danger. His house is guard- ed. The police spy him. If he leaves it it three-quarters of an hour (which he will unless he is warned in time) he will never see his home again.” “T'll go,” I sald, trembling with agi- tation. “Don’t say yes before you hear the nature of your mission,” he said smil- ingly. “Bialnick’s house Is guarded three squares around. You will be stopped half a dozen times within the Pecherskoi, and unless successful you will not come back to this cozy nook. I don’t want you to undertake this task without fully realizing the risk attached to it.” “I'll go,” I repeated . parrot-like, shivering with anxiety for Katla. “I would have gone myself but my absence from another place would ruin a score of faithful members. A secret meeting, which was discovered by the police, was to be held tc-night. Every member who will start for our meeting-place will never see his home again. I don’t wish to impose upon you, but if you are fearless enough you wiil have a chance to save the life of a noble man, who is also a champijon of the Jews.” ) “I'll go,” 1 reiterated, moving about impatiently. Many conflicting thoughts rushed through my brain; it was the battle between revenge and forgive- ness. “Love your enemies, bless them that, curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them that de- spitefully use you and persecute you, a weird voice whispered to me, “I'll go—TI'll go,” I reiterated nervously, lest I should change my mind. Dolgoft took a bundle from under his arm, unrolled it and disclosed an ar- tificial beard, a pair ¢f glasses and a cap with a cockade. “Ready?” he asked. In an instant I was entirely transformed; my daily companions could not have recognized me. “Re- member, you are Doctor Orshanski, the famous surgeon. The impersonation is complete.” He examined me studious- ly and added, half to me, half to him- self: “The hat should be drawn a lit- tle lower—that's better.” open!” “Now go,” he said. “You will find a droshky on the corner. Get in with- out saying a word to the driver. Ask no questions on the way. If you are stopped, answer ‘Doctor Orshanski.’ If you are asked where you are bound for, say, ‘Miss Bialnick’sprained her ankle.’ The coachman will put you off at the right place. Ring the bell and ask to see the Judge personally. If you are refused, say ‘Pax.” When you meet him don’t introduce yourself, but simply tell him to stay at home three days on pretense of sickness, When that is said, don’t add another word, but depart at- once. Now go quick; don’t lose a moment’s time.” The droshky sped Itke lightning for fully twenty minutes. The driver avoided principal streets. 1 was only stopped once, and before I had time to give my name the officer said, “Pass on, Dr. Orshanski,” without any inter- rogations. Other particulars of the ride I do not remember. All the way my brain was so feverish that I was like one stunned. When I was just in the act of ringing the bell the door opened and the Judge appeared before me, robed in a Meavy fur ctcak. I deliv- ered my message and for fear of being recognized by him I turned quickly and sped home. CHAPTER VIIL LOVE CONQUERS DISCRETION. The following morning I was called before the chief, and after a brief trial was told to go home, but warned that I was “under the suspicion of the po- lice.” . On my way home I learned from Mr. Levinski, who had had an interview with the chief of police concerning Ephraim, that Ephraim was also ar- rested on suspicion only, but his case was rather serious because he had car- ried on some correspondence with Pro- fessor Dragmanoff, who was a great agitator of nihilism and who had fled to Switzerland. The worst for Eph- raim was, however, his being found de- stroying papers, and the discovery in his trunk of letters from Dragmanoff after his denial of ever having corre- sponded with the professor. Besides other “‘censored” books, “The Revisor” (Gogol's famous drama of corruption), which had been particularly suppressed that winter, was also found in Eph- raim’s possession. Mr. Levinski gave it as his opinion that Ephraim would certainly be sent to Siberia. However, the misfortune that befell my friend, and the still graver afflic- tion that the nation had sustained by losing the noblest of its emperors, were as naught compared to my anxiety about Katia. Of what interest or value was Russia to me? What did it matter that the liberal Czar was as- sassinated when Katia, who was more to me than my nation, my creed, my race, and above kings and queens, was away from me and yet dwelt in the innermost chamber of my heart? For who is more selfish, jealous, conceited than a lover? Human beings, the ani- mal kingdom, and other matters like pen, ink, or paper, serve only one pur- pose—to communicate his or her fever- ish sentiments to the beloved. Even the world plays a trifling part when the egotistic lover is engaged in the amorous vanity of the heart. And yet the world was built on love, so the poets say. Love is the magnetism which holds together the molecules of humanity. 1 stayed in my room two days, and then, the excitement being over, I went to give Katia her regular lesson. 1 was shown into the reception-room, where I found her taking leave of a tall stout man of military bearing. I had met him several times before, but he had evaded an introduction, always averlooking me with obvious contempt. This time he could not avoid meet- ing me, but he acknowledged the intro- duction formally with a bow that seemed to mean: ‘““What the devil is the Jew doing here?” He remained only a few minutes longer, and when he departed he did not_give me even so much as a friend- 1y look. “Is it not horrible, Mr. Russakoff?"” Katia began tremulously. “My father has been sick in bed for the four days since the fearful mews reached us. He takes this catastrophe so to heart. It is terrible. Oh, the Nihilists are ruin- ing this country! Wny cannot people live peacefully, I wonder?” She dropped into a chair as if from sheer exhaustion. She evidently knew ‘nothing of misery, of suffering, of starvation, of oppression—she did not even know her own father. For a while we talked of her father, of the Nihilists, of the possible results of the Czar's assassination; and then our talk shifted to Heine, whose “Reisebilder” she was reading with my assistance. “I always wondered how those poets could write so much on the single sub- ject_of love,” Katia remarked; and then she immediately blushed, as if she wished to recall her words. “Because they felt so much,” I an- swered. “It seems strange,” she went on hes- itatingly, playing with the golden cru- cifix that dangled over her bosom. “When my feeiings are touched I have very few words to say, and for the rest"—she broke the sentence with a forced laugh—“I cry. I think ' that tears are the poetry that flows from the very depths of one’s soul, while words come more from the prain. Don’t you ever feel inclined to shed tears, Mr. Russakoff?” “Sometime: I replied in a stifled tone; and immediately I added with an attempt at lightness: “And sometimes 1 relieve my feelings as the poets do— in verses.” A silence of a minute or more fol- lowed, during which she glanced at me several times from under her lowered eyelashes. “Do you know,” she resumed, clearing her throat as she spoke, “the more I see of you the more you remind me of Israel. He was always melancholy.” Again there was silence. I quivered with delight at the introduction of my old seif. “What became of this early friend?” T asked at length. She flushed slightly and twirled the chain of her crucifix. “He ran away. He was too sensitive. ; In that respect he was alsc like you.” “I suppose he feit guilty of some wrong. Sensitive people cannot bear their own wrongs, though they can tolerate the same wrongs in others,” 1 rejoined. “No. It was I who was to blame for \ ~ it alL.” She flushed again. “I commit- 7 g "\‘v ted the wrong and he was punished. N My father was a little too harsh on him.” s Then she added: “TI am inclined to believe that my father was also very fond of that boy, for he talked of him quite often, and of his purpese to edu- cate him and make a great man of him. He was exceptionally bright.” “And yet you drove him out of your house and forced him to become a vagrant, as he undoubtedly has be- come,” I said, forgetting for the mo- ment that I was supposed to know nothing of this incident. She glanced at me in bewilderment at these words. “You are quite mis- taken, Mr. Russakoff,” she rejoined somewhat confusedly. “He ran away voluntarily.” 1 perceived that she was not aware that I had been asked to leave, and I saw no reason for enlightening her. After an awkward pause I said jeal- ously: “It'is unfortunate for two young people«of different stations in life to fall in love. It 1s better that they should be separated. Think of that Jewish boy"—I was smiling and yet trembling—“now grown to man- hood and come to claim you.” “It would all depend,” she replied, looking down and fingering her crucl- fix. “Yes, it would all depend on his be- ing rich and famous and handsome,”™ 1 sald bitterly. “Oh, no. It would all depend on his being the same as he had been,” she sald very softly, her face warm with blushes. “There is nothing specific we love; we love something indefinable, and we can only love as long as that , indefinable attraction exists.” “But suppose,” I continued eagerly, my eyes fixed intently upon her, “your early lover should come as a poor student, nameless, without a fortune, and yet possessed of that indefinable something? She quivered perceptibly and turned her eyes away from me, her breath coming fast and short. All my feelings of unworthiness, all my vows of silence went to the winds. I leaned forward, on~fire with love. and caught her hand. “Katia!™ I whispered. She started. “Katia I implored. “Don’t you know me? She trembled, and her head sank forward so that I could not see her face. “Katia—Katia, I have lived for years with one thought, one desire, one hope—to find you. And at last I have found you—Kati Her breast rose and fell but she did not speak. “I am the same Israe!—the Israel who used to play with you—who used to love you.” I pressed her hand more closely. “Don’t you remember—don’t you remember that afternoon when we sat together? Don't you remember your promise? Aren’t you the same Katia who once loved me a little—a lit- tle bit, at least?” A hot tear splashed upon my wrist. “Katia!"” I cried, all my soul in that one word. I dropped to the floor beside her and dared to touch her chin, with the inten- tion of raising her head. But it came slowly up of its own accord. She turned her glorious eyes, brimming with tears, full upon me, and her face threw open heaven to me. “You—you! Oh, Israel!” she whis- pered. violently, CHAPTER IX. I BEND TO THE CROSS. After a while we began to talk of the years that had passed since I had tramped through the sleety night away from Zamok. She told me of her ex- periences, all of which were very quiet, for her life had moved on evenly and happlly; and I told her of the Yeshiva of Javolin, of Malke, of the gymna- sium at Vilno. Then our talk became more broken. “How surprised father will be to learn who you really are,” she said at one time during the evening. I made haste to suggest that it might be wis- est not to reveal my identity to him Jjust yet, giving reasons which, though plausible, were not the ones which actually influenced me. To this she agreed. When I told her the poems which appeared weekly in the Moskovski Gazette, and for which she had often expressed admiration, were mine, she assumed an “I-told-you-so” air that was bewitching. “Don’t you remember, I used to say that some day you would be a great poet like Pushkin or Lermontoff—" “And then,” I interrupted her, “you remember what you promised?” “Why, you foolish Israel—then,” she laughed rapturously and dropped her head on my breast. T asked about the officer whom I had seen so frequently at her house and to whom I had that day been introduced, and she confessed to me that he had propased to her twice within the last two weeks. “When you think of that fine-look- ing man how can you love me? I asked with a tinge of jealousy. “Me— a Jew?" “Oh, you foolish, foolish boy!" she cried, again showing her affection in a way that was more expressive than words. Continued Next Sunday.