t at home; she
has gone to the hospital to find what is being done to Yefim.
Somewhere there is a baby crying, and Varka hears someone singing
with her own voice:

"Hush-a-bye, my baby wee, I will sing a song to thee."

Pelageya comes back; she crosses herself and whispers:

"They put him to rights in the night, but towards morning he gave
up his soul to God. . . . The Kingdom of Heaven be his and peace
everlasting. . . . They say he was taken too late. . . . He ought
to have gone sooner. . . ."

Varka goes out into the road and cries there, but all at once someone
hits her on the back of her head so hard that her forehead knocks
against a birch tree. She raises her eyes, and sees facing her, her
master, the shoemaker.

"What are you about, you scabby slut?" he says. "The child is crying,
and you are asleep!"

He gives her a sharp slap behind the ear, and she shakes her head,
rocks the cradle, and murmurs her song. The green patch and the
shadows from the trousers and the baby-clothes move up and down,
nod to her, and soon take possession of her brain again. Again she
sees the high road covered with liquid mud. The people with wallets
on their backs and the shadows have lain down and are fast asleep.
Looking at them, Varka has a passionate longing for sleep; she would
lie down with enjoyment, but her mother Pelageya is walking beside
her, hurrying her on. They are hastening together to the town to
find situations.

"Give alms, for Christ's sake!" her mother begs of the people they
meet. "Show us the Divine Mercy, kind-hearted gentlefolk!"

"Give the baby here!" a familiar voice answers. "Give the baby
here!" the same voice repeats, this time harshly and angrily. "Are
you asleep, you wretched girl?"

Varka jumps up, and looking round grasps what is the matter: there
is no high road, no Pelageya, no people meeting them, there is only
her mistress, who has come to feed the baby, and is standing in the
middle of the room. While the stout, broad-shouldered woman nurses
the child and soothes it, Varka stands looking at her and waiting
till she has done. And outside the windows the air is already turning
blue, the shadows and the green patch on the ceiling are visibly
growing pale, it will soon be morning.

"Take him," says her mistress, buttoning up her chemise over her
bosom; "he is crying. He must be bewitched."

Varka takes the baby, puts him in the cradle and begins rocking it
again. The green patch and th