"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.

But the sick man had not stirred.