kept in the poultry yard, and the hens were of a special kind,
laying a great quantity of eggs. In the orchard the fruit trees were
well whitewashed and propped on poles to enable them to grow straight.
Everything was looked after--solid, clean, and in perfect order. Peter
Nikolaevich rejoiced in the perfect condition of his estate, and was
proud to have achieved it--not by oppressing the peasants, but, on the
contrary, by the extreme fairness of his dealings with them.

Among the nobles of his province he belonged to the advanced party, and
was more inclined to liberal than conservative views, always taking the
side of the peasants against those who were still in favour of serfdom.
"Treat them well, and they will be fair to you," he used to say. Of
course, he did not overlook any carelessness on the part of those who
worked on his estate, and he urged them on to work if they were lazy;
but then he gave them good lodging, with plenty of good food, paid their
wages without any delay, and gave them drinks on days of festival.

Walking cautiously on the melting snow--for the time of the year was
February--Peter Nikolaevich passed the stables, and made his way to the
cottage where his workmen were lodged. It was still dark, the darker
because of the dense fog; but the windows of the cottage were lighted.
The men had already got up. His intention was to urge them to begin
work. He had arranged that they should drive out to the forest and bring
back the last supply of firewood he needed before spring.

"What is that?" he thought, seeing the door of the stable wide open.
"Hallo, who is there?"

No answer. Peter Nikolaevich stepped into the stable. It was dark; the
ground was soft under his feet, and the air smelt of dung; on the right
side of the door were two loose boxes for a pair of grey horses. Peter
Nikolaevich stretched out his hand in their direction--one box was
empty. He put out his foot--the horse might have been lying down. But
his foot did not touch anything solid. "Where could they have taken the
horse?" he thought. They certainly had not harnessed it; all the sledges
stood still outside. Peter Nikolaevich went out of the stable.

"Stepan, come here!" he called.

Stepan was the head of the workmen's gang. He was just stepping out of
the cottage.

"Here I am!" he said, in a cheerful voice. "Oh, is that you, Peter
Nikolaevich? Our men are coming."

"Why is the stable door open?

"Is it? I don't know anythi