actured,
but not very badly. He's a strong fellow, but he's lost a lot of
blood. We'll take him over to the hospital."

"Why? Let him stay here!" exclaimed Nikolay.

"To-day he may; and--well--to-morrow, too; but after that it'll be more
convenient for us to have him at the hospital. I have no time to pay
visits. You'll write a leaflet about the affair at the cemetery, won't
you?"

"Of course!"

The mother rose quietly and walked into the kitchen.

"Where are you going, Nilovna?" Nikolay stopped her with solicitude.
"Sofya can get along by herself."

She looked at him and started and smiled strangely.

"I'm all covered with blood."

While changing her dress she once again thought of the calmness of
these people, of their ability to recover from the horrible, an ability
which clearly testified to their manly readiness to meet any demand
made on them for work in the cause of truth. This thought, steadying
the mother, drove fear from her heart.

When she returned to the room where the sick man lay, she heard Sofya
say, as she bent over him:

"That's nonsense, comrade!"

"Yes, I'll incommode you," he said faintly.

"You keep still. That's better for you."

The mother stood back of Sofya, and puffing her hand on her shoulders
peered with a smile into the face of the sick man. She related how he
had raved in the presence of the cabman and frightened her by his lack
of caution. Ivan heard her; his eyes turned feverishly, he smacked his
lips, and at times exclaimed in a confused low voice: "Oh, what a fool
I am!"

"We'll leave you here," Sofya said, straightening out the blanket.
"Rest."

The mother and Sofya went to the dining room and conversed there in
subdued voices about the events of the day. They already regarded the
drama of the burial as something remote, and looked with assurance
toward the future in deliberating on the work of the morrow. Their
faces wore a weary expression, but their thoughts were bold.

They spoke of their dissatisfaction with themselves. Nervously moving
in his chair and gesticulating animatedly the physician, dulling his
thin, sharp voice with an effort, said:

"Propaganda! propaganda! There's too little of it now. The young
workingmen are right. We must extend the field of agitation. The
workingmen are right, I say."

Nikolay answered somberly:

"From everywhere come complaints of not enough literature, and we still
cannot get a good printing establish