u'll lose your way!" Lipa walked rapidly; she lost the
kerchief from her head... she looked at the sky and wondered where
her baby's soul was now: was it following her, or floating aloft yonder
among the stars and thinking nothing now of his mother? Oh, how lonely
it was in the open country at night, in the midst of that singing when
one cannot sing oneself; in the midst of the incessant cries of joy when
one cannot oneself be joyful, when the moon, which cares not whether
it is spring or winter, whether men are alive or dead, looks down
as lonely, too.... When there is grief in the heart it is hard to be
without people. If only her mother, Praskovya, had been with her, or
Crutch, or the cook, or some peasant!

"Boo-oo!" cried the bittern. "Boo-oo!"

And suddenly she heard clearly the sound of human speech: "Put the
horses in, Vavila!"

By the wayside a camp fire was burning ahead of her: the flames had died
down, there were only red embers. She could hear the horses munching. In
the darkness she could see the outlines of two carts, one with a barrel,
the other, a lower one with sacks in it, and the figures of two men; one
was leading a horse to put it into the shafts, the other was standing
motionless by the fire with his hands behind his back. A dog growled by
the carts. The one who was leading the horse stopped and said:

"It seems as though someone were coming along the road."

"Sharik, be quiet!" the other called to the dog.

And from the voice one could tell that the second was an old man. Lipa
stopped and said:

"God help you."

The old man went up to her and answered not immediately:

"Good-evening!"

"Your dog does not bite, grandfather?"

"No, come along, he won't touch you."

"I have been at the hospital," said Lipa after a pause. "My little son
died there. Here I am carrying him home."

It must have been unpleasant for the old man to hear this, for he moved
away and said hurriedly:

"Never mind, my dear. It's God's will. You are very slow, lad," he
added, addressing his companion; "look alive!

"Your yoke's nowhere," said the young man; "it is not to be seen."

"You are a regular Vavila."

The old man picked up an ember, blew on it--only his eyes and nose were
lighted up--then, when they had found the yoke, he went with the
light to Lipa and looked at her, and his look expressed compassion and
tenderness.

"You are a mother," he said; "every mother grieves for her child."

And he sig