ound with anxiety.

"Well, then, good-by," he said.

She pretended not to see his extended hand, turned round, and
endeavoring to hide her elation, she walked away with quick step.

"What is taking place in her? What is she thinking? What are her
feelings? Is she putting me to a test, or is she really unable to
forgive me? Can she not say what she thinks and feels, or simply will
not? Is she pacified or angered?" Nekhludoff asked himself, but could
give no answer. One thing he knew, however, and that was that she had
changed; that a spiritual transformation was taking place in her, and
this transformation united him not only to her, but to Him in whose
name it was taking place. And this union caused him joyful agitation.

Returning to the ward where eight children lay in their beds, Maslova
began to remake one of the beds, by order of the Sister, and, leaning
over too far with the sheet, slipped and nearly fell. The convalescing
boy, wound in bandages to his neck, began to laugh. Maslova could
restrain herself no longer, and seating herself on the bedstead she
burst into loud laughter, infecting several children, who also began
to laugh. The Sister angrily shouted:

"What are you roaring about? Think you this is like the place you came
from? Go fetch the rations."

Maslova stopped laughing, and taking a dish went on her errand, but
exchanging looks with the bandaged boy, who giggled again.

Several times during the day, when Maslova remained alone, she drew
out a corner of the picture and looked at it with admiration, but in
the evening, when she and another nurse retired for the night, she
removed the picture from the envelope and immovably looked with
admiration at the faces; her own, his and the aunt's, their dresses,
the stairs of the balcony, the bushes in the background, her eyes
feasting especially on herself, her young, beautiful face with the
hair hanging over her forehead. She was so absorbed that she failed to
notice that the other nurse had entered.

"What is that? Did he give it you?" asked the stout, good-natured
nurse, leaning over the photograph.

"Is it possible that that is you?"

"Who else?" Maslova said, smiling and looking into her companion's
face.

"And who is that? He himself? And that is his mother?"

"His aunt. Couldn't you recognize me?" asked Maslova.

"Why, no. I could never recognize you. The face is entirely different.
That must have been taken about ten years ago."

"Not