By the postmark on the envelope and by the writing he knew that it came from Albína, and he remembered how in one of his first letters he had jokingly described to her the pleasure he now experienced in earning all he required by giving lessons: money to buy tobacco, tea, and even books. Putting the money-order into a fresh envelope, he returned it with a letter in which he begged her not to spoil their sacred friendship with money. He wrote that he had all he required, and was perfectly happy in the knowledge that he had such a friend⁠—and so their correspondence ended.

In November, Migoúrski was sitting at the Lieutenant-Colonel’s teaching the latter’s two boys, when he heard the approaching sound of the post-bell, and the snow creaked under the runners of a sledge, which stopped at the front-door. The children jumped up to see who had come. Migoúrski remained in the room, looking at the door, and expecting the children to return, when the Lieutenant-Colonel’s wife herself entered.

“Oh, Pan! Here are some ladies asking for you,” she said. “They must be from your parts⁠ ⁠… they seem to be Poles.”