fingers and all, home with me. There they may weave and stitch as much
as you like; but as man and wife no one shall part us, and we will lead a
life such a life! The joys of Paradise shall be no better than a rap on
the skull with an olive-wood log in comparison!"

He tried to take her hand again, but she drew it away, saying in deep
confusion and without looking up: "No, Rustem. I was afraid yesterday
that it would come to this; but it can never, never be. I am grateful--
oh! so grateful; but no, it cannot be, and that must be the end of it.
I can never be your wife. Rustem."

"No?" he asked with a scowl, and the veins swelled in his low forehead.
"Then you have been making a fool of me!--as to the gratitude you talk
of...."

He stood up in hot excitement; she laid her hand on his arm, drew him
down on to the seat again, and ventured to steal an imploring look into
his eyes, which never could long flash with anger. Then she said:

How you break out! I shall really and truly be very grieved to part from
you; cannot you see that I am fond of you? But indeed, indeed it will
never do, I--oh! if only I might go back, home, and with you. Yes, with
you, as your wife. What a proud and happy thought! And how gladly would
I work for us both--for I am very handy and hard-working, but. . . ."

"But?" he repeated, and he put his big, sun-burnt face close to hers,
looking as if he could break her in pieces.

"But it cannot be, for your sake; it must not be, positively, certainly.
I will not make you so bad a return for all your kindness. What! have