ld man began to grumble: "If you were as fond of working as you
are of singing."

Kasya, who was standing on her tiptoes to look on a shelf, turned her
head to her father, laughed merrily, and showing her white teeth, sang
again as if to tease him:

"He hoots in the woods and the cuckoo's his prey."

"You would be glad yourself to be a cuckoo until a falcon came," said
the old man. "Perhaps 'tis falcon who is at the turpentine works? but
this is folly. You can't earn a piece of bread by singing."

Kasya again sang:

"Hoot not thou, my falcon, unhappy thy quest,
In the depths of the lake thy cuckoo doth rest."

Then she said:

"Wilt thou decorate the room with the evergreens for to-morrow? I
shall return in time to milk the cows, but they should be brought from
the pasture."

She found her basket, kissed her father, and went out. Old Stephan got
his unfinished fishing-net, and seated himself on a bench outside the
door. He gathered his twine, and half-closing one eye he tried to
thread his netting needle; after several attempts he succeeded and
began to work.

From time to time he watched Kasya. She was walking on the left side
of the lake; against the background of the sandy banks she stood out
in relief as if in a picture. Her white waist and red striped skirt
and yellow kerchief glistened in the sunlight like a variegated
flower. Though it was spring the heat was unbearable. After she had
gone about half a mile she turned aside and disappeared into the
woods. The afternoon hours were hot in the sun, but in the shade of
the trees it was quite cool. Kasya pressed forward, suddenly stopped,
smiled, and blushed like a rose.

In front of her in the pathway stood a youth about eighteen years of
age.

This youth was the turpentine worker, from the edge of the woods, who
was now on his way to visit Stephan.

"The Lord be praised!" said he.

"Forever and ever," answered she, and in her confusion she covered her
face with her apron, peeping shyly out of a corner of it and smiling
at her companion.

"Kasya," said he.

"What is it, John?"

"Is your father at home?"

"He is."

The turpentine worker, poor fellow, perhaps desired to speak of
something else beside the father, but somehow he was frightened and
unconsciously inquired for him; then he became silent and waited for
Kasya to speak to him first. She stood confused, twisting the corners
of her apron.

At last she spoke.

"John?"

"What