outer earth; as I glance at that bosom, whereon
the sun's rays are finding a roseate reflection, as though the blood
were oozing through the skin, my rapture dies away, and turns to
sorrow, heartache, and tears. For in me there is a presentiment that
before the living juice within that bosom shall have borne fruit, it
will have become dried up.

Presently, in a tone almost of self-excuse, and one wherein the words
sound a little sadly, she continues:

"Times there are when something comes pouring into my soul which makes
my breasts ache with the pain of it. What is there for me to do at such
moments save reveal my thoughts to the moon, or, in the daytime, to a
river? Oh God in Heaven! And afterwards I feel as ashamed of myself!...
Do not look at me like that. Why stare at me with those eyes, eyes
so like the eyes of a child?"

"YOUR face, rather, is like a child's," I remark.

"What? Is it so stupid?"

"Something like that."

As she fastens up her bodice she continues:

"Soon the time will be five o'clock, when the bell will ring for Mass.
To Mass I must go today, for I have a prayer to offer to the Mother of
God... Shall you be leaving here soon?"

"Yes--as soon, that is to say, as I have received back my passport."

"And for what destination?"

"For Alatyr. And you?"

She straightens her attire, and rises. As she does so I perceive that
her hips are narrower than her shoulders, and that throughout she is
well-proportioned and symmetrical.

"I? As yet I do not know. True, I had thought of proceeding to
Naltchik, but now, perhaps, I shall not do so, for all my future is
uncertain."

Upon that she extends to me a pair of strong, capable arms, and
proposes with a blush:

"Shall we kiss once more before we part?"

She clasps me with the one arm, and with the other makes the sign of
the cross, adding:

"Good-bye, dear friend, and may Christ requite you for all your words,
for all your sympathy!"

"Then shall we travel together?"

At the words she frees herself, and says firmly, nay, sternly:

"Not so. Never would I consent to such a plan. Of course, had you been
a muzhik--but no. Even then what would have been the use of it, seeing
that life is to be measured, not by a single hour, but by years?"

And, quietly smiling me a farewell, she moves away towards the hut,
whilst I, remaining seated, lose myself in thoughts of her. Will she
ever overtake her quest in life? Shall I ever behold her again?