* * * * *

"I like that red-haired instructress, Nadezhda Vestchezerova," said
Elena.

She looked searchingly at her sister.

"Yes, she's very sincere," answered Elisaveta. '"A fine girl."

"They are all charming," said Elena with greater assurance.

"Yes," observed Elisaveta, with indecision in her voice. "But there is
that other--the one that ran away from us--there's something I don't
like about her. Perhaps it's a slight veneer of hypocrisy."

"Why do you say so?" asked Elena.

"I simply feel it. She smiles too pleasantly, too lovingly. She seems
in every way phlegmatic, yet she tries to appear animated. Her words
come rather easily sometimes, and she exaggerates."

* * * * *

It was quiet in the garden behind the stone wall. This was Kirsha's
free hour. But he could not play, though he tried to.

Little Kirsha, Trirodov's son, whose mother had died not long before,
was dark and thin. He had a very mobile face and restless dark eyes.
He was dressed like the boys in the wood. He was quite restless