an the
working people on their gay passages from and to the factory at dinner
time. Everybody was pleased to see the impotence of the police, and
even the elder workingmen would smile at one another:

"Things are happening, aren't they?"

All over, people would cluster into groups hotly discussing the
stirring appeals. Life was at boiling point. This spring it held more
of interest to everybody, it brought forth something new to all; for
some it was a good excuse to excite themselves--they could pour out
their malicious oaths on the agitators; to others, it brought perplexed
anxiety as well as hope; to others again, the minority, an acute
delight in the consciousness of being the power that set the village
astir.

Pavel and Andrey scarcely ever went to bed. They came home just before
the morning whistle sounded, tired, hoarse, and pale. The mother knew
that they held meetings in the woods and the marsh; that squads of
mounted police galloped around the village, that spies were crawling
all over, holding up and searching single workingmen, dispersing
groups, and sometimes making an arrest. She understood that her son
and Andrey might be arrested any night. Sometimes she thought that
this would be the best thing for them.

Strangely enough, the investigation of the murder of Isay, the record
clerk, suddenly ceased. For two days the local police questioned the
people in regard to the matter, examining about ten men or so, and
finally lost interest in the affair.

Marya Korsunova, in a chat with the mother, reflected the opinion of
the police, with whom she associated as amicably as with everybody:

"How is it possible to find the guilty man? That morning some hundred
people met Isay, and ninety of them, if not more, might have given him
the blow. During these eight years he has galled everybody."

The Little Russian changed considerably. His face became
hollow-cheeked; his eyelids got heavy and drooped over his round eyes,
half covering them. His smiles were wrung from him unwillingly, and
two thin wrinkles were drawn from his nostrils to the corners of his
lips. He talked less about everyday matters; on the other hand, he was
more frequently enkindled with a passionate fire; and he intoxicated
his listeners with his ecstatic words about the future, about the
bright, beautiful holiday, when they would celebrate the triumph of
freedom and reason. Listening to his words, the mother felt that he had
gone