ure began
untying his hood, but gave it up, and pulling it off impatiently with
his cap, angrily flung it near the stove. Then taking off his greatcoat,
he threw that down beside it, and, without saying good-evening, began
pacing up and down the hut.

He was a fair-haired, young postman wearing a shabby uniform and black
rusty-looking high boots. After warming himself by walking to and fro,
he sat down at the table, stretched out his muddy feet towards the sacks
and leaned his chin on his fist. His pale face, reddened in places by
the cold, still bore vivid traces of the pain and terror he had just
been through. Though distorted by anger and bearing traces of recent
suffering, physical and moral, it was handsome in spite of the melting
snow on the eyebrows, moustaches, and short beard.

"It's a dog's life!" muttered the postman, looking round the walls
and seeming hardly able to believe that he was in the warmth. "We were
nearly lost! If it had not been for your light, I don't know what would
have happened. Goodness only knows when it will all be over! There's
no end to this dog's life! Where have we come?" he asked, dropping his
voice and raising his eyes to the sexton's wife.

"To the Gulyaevsky Hill on General Kalinovsky's estate," she answered,
startled and blushing.

"Do you hear, Stepan?" The postman turned to the driver, who was wedged
in the doorway with a huge mail-bag on his shoulders. "We've got to
Gulyaevsky Hill."

"Yes... we're a long way out." Jerking out these words like a hoarse
sigh, the driver went out and soon after returned with another bag, then
went out once more and this time brought the postman's sword on a
big belt, of the pattern of that long flat blade with which Judith is
portrayed by the bedside of Holofernes in cheap woodcuts. Laying the
bags along the wall, he went out into the outer room, sat down there and
lighted his pipe.

"Perhaps you'd like some tea after your journey?" Raissa inquired.

"How can we sit drinking tea?" said the postman, frowning. "We must make
haste and get warm, and then set off, or we shall be late for the mail
train. We'll stay ten minutes and then get on our way. Only be so good
as to show us the way."

"What an infliction it is, this weather!" sighed Raissa.

"H'm, yes.... Who may you be?"

"We? We live here, by the church.... We belong to the clergy.... There
lies my husband. Savely, get up and say good-evening! This used to be
a separate parish ti