hem by its novelty. Smiling with eyes dry
with the sleepless night, they looked in silence into Sofya's eyes,
shifting from one foot to the other.

"Won't you drink some milk before you go?" asked Yakob.

"Is there any?" queried Yefim.

"There's a little."

Ignaty, stroking his hair in confusion, announced:

"No, there isn't; I spilled it."

All three laughed. They spoke about milk, but the mother and Sofya
felt that they were thinking of something else, and without words were
wishing them well. This touched Sofya, and produced in her, too,
embarrassment and modest reserve, which prevented her from saying
anything more than a quiet and warm "Thank you, comrades."

They exchanged glances, as if the word "comrade" had given them a mild
shock. The dull cough of the sick man was heard. The embers of the
burning woodpile died out.

"Good-by," the peasants said in subdued tones; and the sad word rang in
the women's ears a long time.

They walked without haste, in the twilight of the dawn, along the wood
path. The mother striding behind Sofya said:

"All this is good, just as in a dream--so good! People want to know
the truth, my dear; yes, they want to know the truth. It's like being
in a church on the morning of a great holiday, when the priest has not
yet arrived, and it's dark and quiet; then it's raw, and the people are
already gathering. Here the candles are lighted before the images, and
there the lamps are lighted; and little by little, they drive away the
darkness, illumining the House of God."

"True," answered Sofya. "Only here the House of God is the whole
earth."

"The whole earth," the mother repeated, shaking her head thoughtfully.
"It's so good that it's hard to believe."

They walked and talked about Rybin, about the sick man, about the young
peasants who were so attentively silent, and who so awkwardly but
eloquently expressed a feeling of grateful friendship by little
attentions to the women. They came out into the open field; the sun
rose to meet them. As yet invisible, he spread out over the sky a
transparent fan of rosy rays, and the dewdrops in the grass glittered
with the many-colored gems of brave spring joy. The birds awoke fresh
from their slumber, vivifying the morning with their merry, impetuous
voices. The crows flew about croaking, and flapping their wings
heavily. The black rooks jumped about in the winter wheat, conversing
in abrupt accents. Somewhere the orioles