inding sheaves,
others were raking up the scattered straw and ears, and others again
were gathering great armfuls of corn and handing them to the men to feed
the machine. The work was in full swing. In the kitchen garden, which
Mitri had to pass, a girl, clad only in a long shirt, was digging
potatoes which she put into a basket.

"Where's your grandfather?" asked Mitri. "He's in the barn." Mitri went
to the barn and set to work at once. The old man of eighty knew of
Mitri's trouble. After greeting him, he gave him his place to feed the
machine.

Mitri took off his ragged coat, laid it out of the way near the fence,
and then began to work vigorously, raking the corn together and throwing
it into the machine. The work went on without interruption until the
dinner-hour. The cocks had crowed two or three times, but no one paid
any attention to them; not because the workers did not believe them, but
because they were scarcely heard for the noise of the work and the talk
about it. At last the whistle of the squire's steam thrasher sounded
three miles away, and then the owner came into the barn. He was
a straight old man of eighty. "It's time to stop," he said; "it's
dinner-time." Those at work seemed to redouble their efforts. In a
moment the straw was cleared away; the grain that had been thrashed was
separated from the chaff and brought in, and then the workers went into
the hut.

The hut was smoke-begrimed, as its stove had no chimney, but it had been
tidied up, and benches stood round the table, making room for all those
who had been working, of whom there were nine, not counting the owners.
Bread, soup, boiled potatoes, and kvass were placed on the table.

An old one-armed beggar, with a bag slung over his shoulder, came in
with a crutch during the meal.

"Peace be to this house. A good appetite to you. For Christ's sake give
me something."

"God will give it to you," said the mistress, already an old woman, and
the daughter-in-law of the master. "Don't be angry with us." An old
man, who was still standing near the door, said, "Give him some bread,
Martha. How can you?"

"I am only wondering whether we shall have enough." "Oh, it is wrong,
Martha. God tells us to help the poor. Cut him a slice."

Martha obeyed. The beggar went away. The man in charge of the
thrashing-machine got up, said grace, thanked his hosts, and went away
to rest.

Mitri did not lie down, but ran to the shop to buy some tobacco. He was