anything, they had done nothing to one another to merit blame, no single too-familiar word had ever passed between them.
That day the violin was left hanging on its nail, and Venik was well nigh heartbroken. He longed continually to meet with Krista, and when he had met her he longed to be away again, as though he had committed a crime. Then he fancied that Krista was ailing, and longed to enquire about her health; but when he saw her he saw, too, that she was as pink and fresh as a rose, and as beautiful as a day in spring; only her lips quivered for a moment as though they wished to whisper something, but they closed and did not whisper it. She was sadder and more gloomy than Venik himself, and conversed even less than he did.
Yet several days floated by, and they were more estranged. Venik did not play, Krista did not sing, they did not converse, they did not laugh together, they had no sweet confidences; and yet it seemed to Venik that he was happier then than he had ever been before. Until one morning Venik said, “Krista, I think that I am going to be ill.”
Krista looked at him apprehensively and said, “Why should’st thou be ill?”
“I feel so oppressed, Krista. Let us go to the hillside to the old oak wood. If I am to get well again I shall get well there: if not, I had rather die there.”
