the factory and he's taken up with another woman. They have robbed you
of your boy and made a slave of him. You work like a horse, and never
hear a kind word. I'd rather pine all my days an old maid, I'd rather
get half a rouble from the priest's son, I'd rather beg my bread, or
throw myself into the well...

"It's a sin!" whispered Sofya again.

"Well, let it be."

Somewhere behind the church the same three voices, two tenors and a
bass, began singing again a mournful song. And again the words could not
be distinguished.

"They are not early to bed," Varvara said, laughing.

And she began telling in a whisper of her midnight walks with the
priest's son, and of the stories he had told her, and of his comrades,
and of the fun she had with the travellers who stayed in the house. The
mournful song stirred a longing for life and freedom. Sofya began to
laugh; she thought it sinful and terrible and sweet to hear about, and
she felt envious and sorry that she, too, had not been a sinner when she
was young and pretty.

In the churchyard they heard twelve strokes beaten on the watchman's
board.

"It's time we were asleep," said Sofya, getting up, "or, maybe, we shall
catch it from Dyudya."