t was so calm, so good--so
great." Liudmila laughed, and her laugh sounded velvety. "I thought
of you, of your life--your life is a hard one, isn't it?"

The mother, moving her eyebrows, was silent and thoughtful.

"Of course it's hard!" exclaimed Liudmila.

"I don't know," said the mother carefully. "Sometimes it seems sort of
hard; there's so much of all, it's all so serious, marvelous, and it
moves along so quickly, one thing after the other--so quickly----"

The wave of bold excitement familiar to her overflowed her breast,
filling her heart with images and thoughts. She sat up in bed, quickly
clothing her thoughts in words.

"It goes, it goes, it goes all to one thing, to one side, and like a
fire, when a house begins to burn, upward! Here it shoots forth, there
it blazes out, ever brighter, ever more powerful. There's a great
deal, of hardship, you know. People suffer; they are beaten, cruelly
beaten; and everyone is oppressed and watched. They hide, live like
monks, and many joys are closed to them; it's very hard. And when you
look at them well you see that the hard things, the evil and difficult,
are around them, on the outside, and not within."

Liudmila quickly threw up her head, looked at her with a deep,
embracing look. The mother felt that her words did not exhaust her
thoughts, which vexed and offended her.

"You're not speaking about yourself," said her hostess softly.

The mother looked at her, arose from the bed, and dressing asked:

"Not about myself? Yes; you see in this, in all that I live now, it's
hard to think of oneself; how can you withdraw into yourself when you
love this thing, and that thing is dear to you, and you are afraid for
everybody and are sorry for everybody? Everything crowds into your
heart and draws you to all people. How can you step to one side? It's
hard."

Liudmila laughed, saying softly:

"And maybe it's not necessary."

"I don't know whether it's necessary or not; but this I do know--that
people are becoming stronger than life, wiser than life; that's
evident."

Standing in the middle of the room, half-dressed, she fell to
reflecting for a moment. Her real self suddenly appeared not to
exist--the one who lived in anxiety and fear for her son, in thoughts
for the safekeeping of his body. Such a person in herself was no
longer; she had gone off to a great distance, and perhaps was
altogether burned up by the fire of agitation. This had lightene