ave no money, grannie,' said Elena, 'but here, take this, it will be
of use for something.'

She gave her her handkerchief.

'O-oh, my pretty lady,' said the beggar, 'what do you give your
handkerchief to me for? For a wedding-present to my grandchild when
she's married? God reward you for your goodness!'

A peal of thunder was heard.

'Lord Jesus Christ,' muttered the beggar-woman, and she crossed herself
three times. 'Why, haven't I seen you before,' she added after a brief
pause. 'Didn't you give me alms in Christ's name?'

Elena looked more attentively at the old woman and recognised her.

'Yes, grannie,' she answered, 'wasn't it you asked me why I was so
sorrowful?'

'Yes, darling, yes. I fancied I knew you. And I think you've a
heart-ache still. You seem in trouble now. Here's your handkerchief,
too, wet from tears to be sure. Oh, you young people, you all have the
same sorrow, a terrible woe it is!'

'What sorrow, grannie?'

'Ah, my good young lady, you can't deceive an old woman like me. I know
what your heart is heavy over; your sorrow's not an uncommon one. Sure,
I have been young too, darling. I have been through that trouble too.
Yes. And I'll tell you something, for your goodness to me; you've won
a good man, not a light of love, you cling to him alone; cling to him
stronger than death. If it comes off, it comes off,--if not, it's in
God's hands. Yes. Why are you wondering at me? I'm a fortune-teller.
There, I'll carry away your sorrow with your handkerchief. I'll carry it
away, and it's over. See the rain's less; you wait a little longer. It's
not the first time I've been wet. Remember, darling; you had a sorrow,
the sorrow has flown, and there's no memory of it. Good Lord, have mercy
on us!'

The beggar-woman got up from the edge of the well, went out of
the chapel, and stole off on her way. Elena stared after her in
bewilderment. 'What does this mean?' she murmured involuntarily.

The rain grew less and less, the sun peeped out for an instant. Elena
was just preparing to leave her shelter.... Suddenly, ten paces from the
chapel, she saw Insarov. Wrapt in a cloak he was walking along the very
road by which Elena had come; he seemed to be hurrying home.

She clasped the old rail of the steps for support, and tried to call to
him, but her voice failed her... Insarov had already passed by without
raising his head.

'Dmitri Nikanorovitch!' she said at last.

Insarov stopped abruptly, looked