the other corner a stove; on the walls photographs and pictures.
All was new, solid, clean; and over all the austere monastic figure of
the mistress threw a cold shadow. Something concealed, something
hidden, made itself felt; but where it lurked was incomprehensible.
The mother looked at the doors; through one of them she had entered
from the little antechamber. Near the stove was another door, narrow
and high.

"I have come to you on business," she said in embarrassment, noticing
that the hostess was regarding her.

"I know. Nobody comes to me for any other reason."

Something strange seemed to be in Liudmila's voice. The mother looked
in her face. Liudmila smiled with the corners of her thin lips, her
dull eyes gleamed behind her glasses. Turning her glance aside, the
mother handed her the speech of Pavel.

"Here. They ask you to print it at once."

And she began to tell of Nikolay's preparations for the arrest.

Liudmila silently thrust the manuscript into her belt and sat down on a
chair. A red gleam of the fire was reflected on her spectacles; its
hot smile played on her motionless face.

"When they come to me I'm going to shoot at them," she said with
determination in her moderated voice. "I have the right to protect
myself against violence; and I must fight with them if I call upon
others to fight. I cannot understand calmness; I don't like it."

The reflection of the fire glided across her face, and she again became
austere, somewhat haughty.

"Your life is not very pleasant," the mother thought kindly.

Liudmila began to read Pavel's speech, at first reluctantly; then she
bent lower and lower over the paper, quickly throwing aside the pages
as she read them. When she had finished she rose, straightened
herself, and walked up to the mother.

"That's good. That's what I like; although here, too, there's
calmness. But the speech is the sepulchral beat of a drum, and the
drummer is a powerful man."

She reflected a little while, lowering her head for a minute:

"I didn't want to speak with you about your son; I have never met him,
and I don't like sad subjects of conversation. I know what it means to
have a near one go into exile. But I want to say to you, nevertheless,
that your son must be a splendid man. He's young--that's evident; but
he is a great soul. It must be good and terrible to have such a son."

"Yes, it's good. And now it's no longer terrible."

Liudmila settled h