fear of knocking up against something. Her broad oval face, wrinkled
and puffy, was lighted up with a pair of dark eyes, troubled and
melancholy as those of most of the women in the village. On her
right eyebrow was a deep scar, which turned the eyebrow upward
a little; her right ear, too, seemed to be higher than the left,
which gave her face the appearance of alarmed listening. Gray locks
glistened in her thick, dark hair, like the imprints of heavy blows.
Altogether she was soft, melancholy, and submissive.

Tears slowly trickled down her cheeks.

"Wait, don't cry!" begged the son in a soft voice. "Give me a drink."

She rose and said:

"I'll give you some ice water."

But when she returned he was already asleep. She stood over him for
a minute, trying to breathe lightly. The cup in her hand trembled,
and the ice knocked against the tin. Then, setting the cup on the
table, she knelt before the sacred image upon the wall, and began
to pray in silence. The sounds of dark, drunken life beat against
the window panes; an accordion screeched in the misty darkness of
the autumn night; some one sang a loud song; some one was swearing
with ugly, vile oaths, and the excited sounds of women's irritated,
weary voices cut the air.


Life in the little house of the Vlasovs flowed on monotonously,
but more calmly and undisturbed than before, and somewhat different