a has the sound of a in father. er,, air. i,, ee. u,, oo. y is always
consonantal except when it is the last letter of the word. g is always
hard.

I

IT was a quiet summer morning. The sun stood already pretty high in the
clear sky but the fields were still sparkling with dew; a fresh breeze
blew fragrantly from the scarce awakened valleys and in the forest,
still damp and hushed, the birds were merrily carolling their morning
song. On the ridge of a swelling upland, which was covered from base
to summit with blossoming rye, a little village was to be seen. Along
a narrow by-road to this little village a young woman was walking in a
white muslin gown, and a round straw hat, with a parasol in her hand. A
page boy followed her some distance behind.

She moved without haste and as though she were enjoying the walk. The
high nodding rye all round her moved in long softly rustling waves,
taking here a shade of silvery green and there a ripple of red; the
larks were trilling overhead. The young woman had come from her own
estate, which was not more than a mile from the village to which she
was turning her steps. Her name was Alexandra Pavlovna Lipin. She was
a widow, childless, and fairly well off, and lived with her brother, a
retired cavalry officer, Sergei Pavlitch Volintsev. He was unmarried and
looked after her property.

Alexandra Pavlovna reached the village and, stopping at the last hut,
a very old and low one, she called up the boy and told him to go in and
ask after the health of its mistress. He quickly came back accompanied
by a decrepit old peasant with a white beard.

'Well, how is she?' asked Alexandra Pavlovna.

'Well, she is still alive,' began the old man.

'Can I go in?'

'Of course; yes.'

Alexandra Pavlovna went into the hut. It was narrow, stifling, and smoky
inside. Some one stirred and began to moan on the stove which formed the
bed. Alexandra Pavlovna looked round and discerned in the half
darkness the yellow wrinkled face of the old woman tied up in a checked
handkerchief. Covered to the very throat with a heavy overcoat she was
breathing with difficulty, and her wasted hands were twitching.

Alexandra Pavlovna went close up to the old woman and laid her fingers
on her forehead; it was burning hot.

'How do you feel, Matrona?' she inquired, bending over the bed.

'Oh, oh!' groaned the old woman, trying to make her out, 'bad, very bad,
my dear! My last hour has come,