t
as Elena looked from her windows she could see the long stretch of
white road--the snow piled up in great walls on either side--the two
rows of straggling, half-finished log huts, ending with the ruined
Church, and the new posting-house.

In the distance, the flat surface of the frozen lake, the dark green
of the pine forest, and the wide stretches of level country; broken
here and there by the tops of the scattered wooden fences.

Up the street the sledges ran evenly, the horses jangling the bells on
their great arched collars, the drivers in their leather fur-lined
coats, cracking their whips and shouting.

Now and then a woman, in a thick pelisse, a bright-coloured
handkerchief on her head, would come by; dragging a load of wood or
carrying a child in her arms.

The air was stilly cold, with a sparkling clearness; the sky as blue
and brilliant as midsummer.

Elena felt cheered by the exhilarating brightness. She was young, and
gradually she rose from the state of indifference into which she had
fallen, and began to take her old interest in all that was going on
about her.

"I want to ask you something, Uncle Volodia," she said one day, as
they sat round the _samivar_,[C] for she had begged that they might
have at least one meal together, in the sitting-room.

[C] Tea-urn.

Maria was rather constrained on these occasions, seeming oppressed
with the feeling that she must sit exactly in the centre of her chair.
She spread a large clean handkerchief out over her knees, to catch any
crumbs that might be wandering, and fixed her eyes on the children
with respectful solemnity.

Volodia, on the contrary, always came in smiling genially, in his old
homespun blouse and high boots; and was ready for a game with Daria,
or a romp with Boris, the moment the tea things had been carried away
by his wife.

"What is it, Elena Andreievna?" he asked. "Nothing very serious, I
hope?"

"Not very, Uncle Volodia. It's only that I want to learn something--I
want to feel I can _do_ something when our money has gone, for I know
it won't last very long."

"Why trouble your head about business, Elena Andreievna? You know your
things sold for a great deal, and it is all put away in the wooden
honey-box, in the clothes chest. It will last till you're an old
woman!"

"But I would like to _feel_ I was earning some money, Uncle Volodia. I
think I might learn to make paper flowers. Don't you think so, dear
Uncle Volodia? You know