e shadows gradually disappear, and now
there is nothing to force itself on her eyes and cloud her brain.
But she is as sleepy as before, fearfully sleepy! Varka lays her
head on the edge of the cradle, and rocks her whole body to overcome
her sleepiness, but yet her eyes are glued together, and her head
is heavy.

"Varka, heat the stove!" she hears the master's voice through the
door.

So it is time to get up and set to work. Varka leaves the cradle,
and runs to the shed for firewood. She is glad. When one moves and
runs about, one is not so sleepy as when one is sitting down. She
brings the wood, heats the stove, and feels that her wooden face
is getting supple again, and that her thoughts are growing clearer.

"Varka, set the samovar!" shouts her mistress.

Varka splits a piece of wood, but has scarcely time to light the
splinters and put them in the samovar, when she hears a fresh order:

"Varka, clean the master's goloshes!"

She sits down on the floor, cleans the goloshes, and thinks how
nice it would be to put her head into a big deep golosh, and have
a little nap in it. . . . And all at once the golosh grows, swells,
fills up the whole room. Varka drops the brush, but at once shakes
her head, opens her eyes wide, and tries to look at things so that
they may not grow big and move before her eyes.

"Varka, wash the steps outside; I am ashamed for the customers to
see them!"

Varka washes the steps, sweeps and dusts the rooms, then heats
another stove and runs to the shop. There is a great deal of work:
she hasn't one minute free.

But nothing is so hard as standing in the same place at the kitchen
table peeling potatoes. Her head droops over the table, the potatoes
dance before her eyes, the knife tumbles out of her hand while her
fat, angry mistress is moving about near her with her sleeves tucked
up, talking so loud that it makes a ringing in Varka's ears. It is
agonising, too, to wait at dinner, to wash, to sew, there are minutes
when she longs to flop on to the floor regardless of everything,
and to sleep.

The day passes. Seeing the windows getting dark, Varka presses her
temples that feel as though they were made of wood, and smiles,
though she does not know why. The dusk of evening caresses her eyes
that will hardly keep open, and promises her sound sleep soon. In
the evening visitors come.

"Varka, set the samovar!" shouts her mistress. The samovar is a
little one, and before the visitors ha