mother, and a long time her mother gazed at her in silence and in
tears.

This dumb reproach, more deeply than any other, cut Elena to the
heart; at such moments she felt, not remorse, but a deep, boundless
pity akin to remorse.

'Mamma, dear mamma!' she would repeat, kissing her hands; 'what
was I to do? I'm not to blame, I loved him, I could not have acted
differently. Throw the blame on fate for throwing me with a man whom
papa doesn't like, and who is taking me away from you.'

'Ah!' Anna Vassilyevna cut her short, 'don't remind me of that.
When I think where you mean to go, my heart is ready to burst!'

'Dear mamma,' answered Elena, 'be comforted; at least, it might have
been worse; I might have died.'

'But, as it is, I don't expect to see you again. Either you will end
your days there in a tent somewhere'--Anna Vassilyevna pictured
Bulgaria as something after the nature of the Siberian swamps,--'or
I shall not survive the separation----'

'Don't say that, mamma dearest, we shall see each other again, please
God. There are towns in Bulgaria just as there are here.'

'Fine towns there, indeed! There is war going on there now; wherever
you go, I suppose they are firing cannons off all the while . . . Are
you meaning to set off soon?'