"A-a-a!..." Crutch was surprised.

"And tell me, if you please, when does she sleep?" said Lipa. "She
sleeps for half an hour, then jumps up and keeps walking and walking
about to see whether the peasants have not set fire to something, have
not stolen something.... I am frightened with her, Ilya Makaritch. And
the Hrymin Juniors did not go to bed after the wedding, but drove to the
town to go to law with each other; and folks do say it is all on account
of Aksinya. Two of the brothers have promised to build her a brickyard,
but the third is offended, and the factory has been at a standstill for
a month, and my uncle Prohor is without work and goes about from house
to house getting crusts. 'Hadn't you better go working on the land or
sawing up wood, meanwhile, uncle?' I tell him; 'why disgrace yourself?'
'I've got out of the way of it,' he says; 'I don't know how to do any
sort of peasant's work now, Lipinka.'..."

They stopped to rest and wait for Praskovya near a copse of young
aspen-trees. Elizarov had long been a contractor in a small way, but he
kept no horses, going on foot all over the district with nothing but a
little bag in which there was bread and onions, and stalking along with
big strides, swinging his arms. And it was difficult to walk with him.

At the entrance to the copse stood a milestone. Elizarov touched it;
read it. Praskovya reached them out of breath. Her wrinkled and always
scared-looking face was beaming with happiness; she had been at church
to-day like anyone else, then she had been to the fair and there had
drunk pear cider. For her this was unusual, and it even seemed to her
now that she had lived for her own pleasure that day for the first time
in her life. After resting they all three walked on side by side. The
sun had already set, and its beams filtered through the copse, casting
a light on the trunks of the trees. There was a faint sound of voices
ahead. The Ukleevo girls had long before pushed on ahead but had
lingered in the copse, probably gathering mushrooms.

"Hey, wenches!" cried Elizarov. "Hey, my beauties!"

There was a sound of laughter in response.

"Crutch is coming! Crutch! The old horseradish."

And the echo laughed, too. And then the copse was left behind. The
tops of the factory chimneys came into view. The cross on the belfry
glittered: this was the village: "the one at which the deacon ate all
the caviare at the funeral." Now they were almost home; they only had