he street, quietly lulling the baby.

It began to grow light. She was afraid and ashamed lest some one come
out on the street and see her half naked. She turned toward the marsh,
and sat down on the ground under a thick group of aspens. She sat there
for a long time, embraced by the night, motionless, looking into the
darkness with wide-open eyes, and timidly wailing a lullaby--a lullaby
for her baby, which had fallen asleep, and a lullaby for her outraged
heart.

A gray bird darted over her head, and flew far away. It awakened her,
and brought her to her feet. Then, shivering with cold, she walked
home to confront the horror of blows and new insults.

For the last time a heavy and resonant chord heaved a deep breath,
indifferent and cold; it sighed and died away.

Sofya turned around, and asked her brother softly:

"Did you like it?"

"Very much," he said, nodding his head. "Very much."

Sofya looked at the mother's face, but said nothing.

"They say," said Nikolay thoughtfully, throwing himself deeper back on
the sofa, "that you should listen to music without thinking. But I
can't."

"Nor can I," said Sofya, striking a melodious chord.

"I listened, and it seemed to me that people were putting their
questions to nature, that they grieved and groaned, and protested
angrily, and shouted, 'Why?' Nature does not answer, but goes on
calmly creating, incessantly, forever. In her silence is heard her
answer: 'I do not know.'"

The mother listened to Nikolay's quiet words without understanding
them, and without desiring to understand. Her bosom echoed with her
reminiscences, and she wanted more music. Side by side with her
memories the thought unfolded itself before her: "Here live people, a
brother and sister, in friendship; they live peacefully and
calmly--they have music and books--they don't swear at each other--they
don't drink whisky--they don't quarrel for a relish--they have no
desire to insult each other, the way all the people at the bottom do."

Sofya quickly lighted a cigarette; she smoked almost without
intermission.

"This used to be the favorite piece of Kostya," she said, as a veil of
smoke quickly enveloped her. She again struck a low mournful chord.
"How I used to love to play for him! You remember how well he
translated music into language?" She paused and smiled. "How
sensitive he was! What fine feelings he had--so responsive to
everything--so fully a man!"

"She must be