agrant air.

"Has Agasha gone?" I asked.

"There she is," said Savka, pointing in the direction of the ford.

I glanced and saw Agafya. Dishevelled, with her kerchief dropping off
her head, she was crossing the river, holding up her skirt. Her legs
were scarcely moving....

"The cat knows whose meat it has eaten," muttered Savka, screwing up his
eyes as he looked at her. "She goes with her tail hanging down.... They
are sly as cats, these women, and timid as hares.... She didn't go,
silly thing, in the evening when we told her to! Now she will catch it,
and they'll flog me again at the peasant court... all on account of the
women...."

Agafya stepped upon the bank and went across the fields to the village.
At first she walked fairly boldly, but soon terror and excitement got
the upper hand; she turned round fearfully, stopped and took breath.

"Yes, you are frightened!" Savka laughed mournfully, looking at the
bright green streak left by Agafya in the dewy grass. "She doesn't want
to go! Her husband's been standing waiting for her for a good hour....
Did you see him?"

Savka said the last words with a smile, but they sent a chill to my
heart. In the village, near the furthest hut, Yakov was standing in the
road, gazing fixedly at his returning wife. He stood without stirring,
and was as motionless as a post. What was he thinking as he looked at
her? What words was he preparing to greet her with? Agafya stood still
a little while, looked round once more as though expecting help from us,
and went on. I have never seen anyone, drunk or sober, move as she did.
Agafya seemed to be shrivelled up by her husband's eyes. At one time
she moved in zigzags, then she moved her feet up and down without
going forward, bending her knees and stretching out her hands, then she
staggered back. When she had gone another hundred paces she looked round
once more and sat down.

"You ought at least to hide behind a bush..." I said to Savka. "If the
husband sees you..."

"He knows, anyway, who it is Agafya has come from.... The women don't go
to the kitchen garden at night for cabbages--we all know that."

I glanced at Savka's face. It was pale and puckered up with a look
of fastidious pity such as one sees in the faces of people watching
tortured animals.

"What's fun for the cat is tears for the mouse..." he muttered.

Agafya suddenly jumped up, shook her head, and with a bold step went
towards her husband. She had evidently pl