harsh and as bitter as wormwood in the mouth.

Little by little the town grew in all directions. The road became
a street, and where the Tivoli and the timber-yard had been, there
were new turnings and houses. How rapidly time passes! Olenka's
house grew dingy, the roof got rusty, the shed sank on one side,
and the whole yard was overgrown with docks and stinging-nettles.
Olenka herself had grown plain and elderly; in summer she sat in
the porch, and her soul, as before, was empty and dreary and full
of bitterness. In winter she sat at her window and looked at the
snow. When she caught the scent of spring, or heard the chime of
the church bells, a sudden rush of memories from the past came over
her, there was a tender ache in her heart, and her eyes brimmed
over with tears; but this was only for a minute, and then came
emptiness again and the sense of the futility of life. The black
kitten, Briska, rubbed against her and purred softly, but Olenka
was not touched by these feline caresses. That was not what she
needed. She wanted a love that would absorb her whole being, her
whole soul and reason--that would give her ideas and an object
in life, and would warm her old blood. And she would shake the
kitten off her skirt and say with vexation:

"Get along; I don't want you!"

And so it was, day after day and year after year, and no joy, and
no opinions. Whatever Mavra, the cook, said she accepted.

One hot July day, towards evening, just as the cattle were being
driven away, and the whole yard was full of dust, some one suddenly
knocked at the gate. Olenka went to open it herself and was dumbfounded