raise her eyes to me; she seemed to be aware that she would infallibly betray herself, would show what was in her heart, if any one looked her straight in the face. . . . And that was just why she did not lift her eyes, except when she was angry or annoyed, and then she stared straight at the person she was speaking to. . . . But her small pretty face was aglow with indomitable resolution.

"Why, Tarhov was right," flashed through my head; "this girl is a new type."

"You've no need to be afraid of me," I declared, at last.

"Truly? Even, if . . . You said something about our relations. . . . But even if there were . . ." she broke off.

"Even in that case, you would have no need to be afraid, Musa Pavlovna. I am not your judge. Your secret is buried here." I pointed to my bosom. "Believe me, I know how to appreciate. . . ."

"Have you got my letter?" Musa asked suddenly.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"In my pocket."

"Give it here . . . quick, quick!"

I got out the scrap of paper. Musa snatched it in her rough little hand, stood still a moment facing me, as though she were going to thank me; but suddenly started, looked round, and